Aquarius
by Aviary
Summary: A Siren, and the Destroyer of Worlds... Movie-based, alternate ending of course! Nuada/OC for all the Nuada fangirls out there.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Note: All references to Greek/Roman mythology (or anything else, for that matter) have very likely been butchered beyond all recognition.

**Chapter 1**

"We've found the Troll Market, Sir," Commander Adrastos stated simply, approaching Prince Nuada, "or what's left of it."

Prince Nuada Silverlance of Bethmora, commander of the Golden Army, had first waged war against the humans seven years ago. The demon Anung un Rama and the creatures of the BPRD were long slaughtered, their city of New York and all others like it laid to ruin. For the first year of this greatest war, the Elven Prince reigned supreme with his fantastic army, slaughtering all in his path without remorse or sympathy – he had hoped for a quick victory, without the bloodshed of his own people or others in the Netherworld; he had not counted on the resilience of man, or on their ruthlessness. In the 14th month of war, after New York, Paris, Berlin and London burned, the humans attacked with their nuclear warheads. For years after, the earth lay barren, covered in grey dust – the fallout parody of snow. From out this wasteland emerged a new class of human – the ruthless, dishonourable and war-hardened; the few remaining vestiges of humanity functioned as guerrilla warriors and terrorists, striking where and when they could against the creatures of the Netherworld, heedless of any ancient battle standards. The greatest war had first been fought with split atoms and 4,900 mechanical warriors; when the dust fell from the clouded sky, the war resumed, as a human had once predicted, with knives and pitchforks.

"Good, Adrastos. Tell the men to search for any survivors."

The Troll Market, under what was once the Brooklyn Bridge, lay in smouldering shambles. Corpses littered the narrow alleyways, carefully tended shop-fronts reduced to ruin. Drainage ducts that once swept water from the subterranean plaza ran red with the blood of creatures from Prince Nuada's beloved Netherworld; carefully, almost painstakingly, the Elven warriors combed over the bodies of fallen innocents, searching for any sign of life, any soul spared from the humans' proud, hollow massacre.

Silently, the Ancient Prince walked alone through the alleys of death and destruction, passing corpses of his fallen kin… The Prince stopped, feeling the air for life. He thought he had felt something – a consciousness, very faint… Nuada stepped closer to a once-shop-front, and a myriad of make-shift wooden cages housing all manner of beast and creature…

There, in a crate, at the back of the stall – a dark form lay sprawled across the floor of the prison. Swiftly and soundlessly, the Ancient Royal approached the barred cage, and struck the lock in a fell stroke of his sword; the rusted metal latch fell away clean, with little resistance. No sooner was the prison door opened than a figure, limp and unconscious, fell from out the crate. It was a woman, the Elven Royal noted with some astonishment – an unquestionable beauty. Her skin was porcelain white and flawlessly fair, her features soft and gentle. Long, thick hair the color of a crow's feathers fell gently about her face in a blanket of straight ebony. Her lips were full, and naturally a deep, dark lavender; she was as the physical embodiment of the ocean at night, or a full moon over a winter lake.

Carefully, the Ancient Royal lifted the woman's body partially into his arms, off the ground,

"Quickly," Prince Nuada ordered tersely, looking up from the lady at his feet, "bring her water."

He did not have to touch her flesh to know what she was… The trading and bartering of sentient creatures had been long outlawed in both the Netherworld and the realm of the humans – nevertheless, the anarchy and chaos brought about by the great war allowed certain individuals to dabble in slave-trading without consequence. There were humans, modern-day pirates who kidnapped "magical" creatures and sold them to mortal warlords as Netherworld "novelties"… God knows what she might have been used for…

Promptly, the Prince's men came to his side, and that of the life he had found. One warrior, a soldier, poured water from his canteen over the lady's lips – at first, she lay motionless; after a moment, her mouth opened and she swallowed slowly. Once he was certain the lady in his arms would not die there, Prince Nuada lifted his hand to the base of her cheek and touched his fingers gently to her flesh, drinking in her memories.

* * *

The first was old, by a memory's standards – a vision from a year ago. He saw the lady in his arms resting on a wicked, wind-swept rock at sea, the salt air whipping her hair about her face. She was with another, her sister, and her sister's daughter, though each appeared equal in age… They were singing, softly and beautifully, out to the sea. A battleship, or what was once a battleship lay wrecked at the base of the lady's rock, the corpses of its men washing up, one by one, on her shore. _So she was a siren…_

Nuada closed his golden eyes and listened through her memory to her siren song. Even diluted through her mind, the melody captured him irrevocably, and held fast his heart to its lilt; to break its spell, he was forced to draw his hand away… The Elven Prince gazed placidly at the woman's eyes, closed under heavy, long lashes that almost glittered blue. She was ancient, in truth – as ancient as he; the nature of her species dictated as much. But he did not want to know the story of her life – desired to know the story of her lament.

Again, the Ancient Royal pressed his fingers to her skin, and closed his eyes. The memory he saw was much more recent – of a week ago, perhaps. It was night, and the ocean tore violently, in a maelstrom, at the lady's rock. Above her a single spotlight, bright and searing white cut through the starlit sky, the incessant beating of helicopter blades padding against the storm-swept air. The night roared with noise… metal hooks tied to black cables dropped from the belly of the chopper and clattered angrily against the jagged stone outcrop, catching and holding fast in all its crevices and imperfections. Nuada saw the lady standing below the beam, defiant, her hand shielding her eyes from the glare of the searchlight. Her dress, a gown the color of the sky at dawn in winter and as this as spider's silk fluttered wildly in the tempest and the gust of the chopper blades.

Swiftly, black-clad men, dressed as soldiers or a SWAT team descended from the cables, armed with machineguns and flashlights – they wore full helmets, like motorcyclists, to shield their faces from view and their ears from the swansong of their prey. One of the soldiers clutched a siren violently, his gloved hand at her throat – it was the lady's sister. She fought; she reached for his helmet, to free his ears. The soldier shot her through the chest, with force enough to knock her into the water. Prince Nuada heard the woman in his arms scream, in her memory. Her sister was dead before her pale corpse hit the ocean, icy tendrils snaking over her and pulling her to the silent depths. A soldier's hand gripped the lady's shoulder, spinning her to face him in his costume of cruel anonymity. She struggled against him and he struck her, with force enough to send her to the ground, the sharp rock slicing her thigh. The muzzle of a machinegun touched the back of her head, still warm from slaying her sister, and a black bag descended over her.

Awake, inside, somewhere, her memory played on like a Greek Tragedy. Her mouth was covered with duct-tape, her wrists and ankles bound tightly with nylon rope – her niece lay unconscious beside her. One of the men, his face visible now, lifted her niece by her hair and threw her into a steel cargo crate. The same man stood over the siren for a moment, eyeing her as one appraises a painting, or chooses apples at the grocery-store – he smirked, with dark, dark eyes. He knelt before her and pulled a knife, a harpy, from his back pocket and sliced through the cords binding her ankles, but not to set her free.

Roughly, the trafficker pushed her knees apart, and held them open with his own. She tried to scream, to struggle and fight against the ropes that held her – her captor raised his knife to her neck, to silence her; the siren saw him smile as he lowered the blade, slicing through the thin weaving of her dress, pressing the steel down harder until the parting fabric was stained with her blood. He did not stop until the blade met her thighs – satisfied, he cast the harpy aside and tore what remained of her gown with his hands; he penetrated her hard and fast, tearing through her without mercy or concern. The man thrust into her hard enough to make her bleed, her body searing hot with pain and shame.

The details of the siren's rape burned vividly into the Elven Prince's mind, from her memory to his own. He felt her agony and dishonour resonating, almost roaring in his head. Physically, Nuada turned from her as if from her suffering, but he kept his eyes closed and did not withdraw his touch – as she could not escape from her hell, he would endure it with her – he owed her that much.

In the days that followed, the trafficker's offence was repeated, enough that the assailants became little more than faceless spectres of torment to their victim; to Prince Nuada, the countenance and visage of every violator stilled in his memory, held there in detail and vengeance. The same men slaked their lust at the expense of the other as well, if not more so – the other, the niece was weaker, and thus the rapists' dominance more complete… Through the siren's memory, Prince Nuada watched the younger woman die, on the fifth day – it was only when the mercenaries came again that they realized they had killed her…

* * *

Finally, the Elven Lord pulled his hand from the lady's face, sighing deeply in mournful pity for the creature he held. _What is your name?_ He asked softly, through his caress – her memory answered, but it was he who spoke the woman's name,

"Siren Bacchante, you are the last of your kind." Nuada's voice was quiet and gentle, but he spoke with a startling power that could not be abandoned. At the sound of his voice, Bacchante opened her eyes, never fluttering them. They were a bright, deep, impossible blue, and they met his golden ones in an instant. In her eyes was the memory of strength, of confidence and pride – but now, in their azure ocean of silent stillness, were only pain and shame and fear. Her wordless misery almost made the Elven Prince shudder with pity and rage.

"I am Prince Nuada, of Bethmora. You have my word that you are safe now, and that you shall not suffer more." He could feel his voice weaken slightly as he spoke – it took all the strength within him not to show it. Tenderly, he lifted her lithe body into his arms, her head resting against his chest. The Elven Prince of Bethmora rose easily to his feet, his head half-lowered, as if in mourning.

"There is no more life here," he said with greater resolve to his men as he stepped past them, back through the carnage from which he came. Adrastos stirred at his Lord's exodus,

"Where are you taking her?" Nuada gazed back at his subordinate and long-time friend,

"Home."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

**Chapter 2**

The Palace-Metropolis of Bethmora was an underground labyrinth, a city of lights built into a granite cavern created by roots of an enormous tree that died when humanity came into creation. Vast networks of stone bridges connected interweaving paths and walkways, linking homes with businesses and shops, and if the people so desired, the outside world. This last fantastic Elven metropolis was constructed centuries ago deep, deep below the earth, safe now from nuclear fallout. At various times in Bethmora's existence, Forest Elementals came there to parish, imparting their dying gift of vegetation and life unto the barren, underground cityscape. For want of sunlight, many plants died, but the darker greenery, mosses and ferns, remained, growing from the city walls and even buildings to create a dark, subterranean oasis. The city of Bethmora paled in comparison to the beauty of Lothlorien and Mirkwood, but then, those places were destroyed long ago by this: Prince Silverlance's greatest war.

The Prince entered his Palace foyer, bearing this world's last siren in his arms. Only two sirens were ever created, the children of the Sea God Phorcys: Bacchante, and her sister, Lorelei. The daughter of the second was fathered by some messenger of the Gods; Bacchante had never mothered a child – no, she had never so much as taken a lover. True, the sirens lured men to their doom, but none of the creatures' victims ever claimed ascendancy over them. Nuada could feel it in her memory and taste it in her shame; her captor, her kidnapper had taken her innocence, when it had not been his to take. Remembering what was done to the creature in his arms, this child of the Gods, renewed the Prince's rage and spurred his indignation at all humanity.

Silently, the Royal placed the siren in a daybed, in one of his home's lavish, unoccupied suites.

"See that she is cared for," Prince Nuada directed a Palace maid, who had followed him from the hall. She curtsied,

"Of course, your Majesty."

The Prince sighed deeply, turning from Bacchante's door to walk down the halls of his home. He remembered almost fondly when his sister would wander these corridors; now, she was little more than a memory... In the months of nuclear winter following the fateful 14th month of war, Princess Nuala became uncontrollable with frustration and despair; in deep dejection bordering on madness she grew irrational; she protested almost violently against being confined to the underground city, and constantly ventured to the surface to 'see the sun'… In those early weeks following the nuclear holocaust, such action was entirely futile – the sky was completely blackened with fallout, and fire. Still, the Princess left the safety of her brother's kingdom, the poisoned air only driving her to greater illness… In a fit of sickness and depression not a month later, Princess Nuala attempted suicide, and in so doing forced her brother's hand. Truly, he could not kill her without killing himself, so as a substitute he confined her alive to a tomb in an antechamber, under a fountain in the center of his Palace in the last place anyone who should not know would ever suspect. Prince Nuada had not thought of her in months, perhaps longer… almost six years had passed since then.

Purging his mind of the memories of his old treachery toward his once-beloved sister, the Prince stepped through the halls of his palace, down to the war room a floor beneath its entrance.

Prince Nuada's hall for battle strategy and forethought was a massive citadel, chiselled from stone and ever well-lit. Curved benches, like those of an amphitheatre encircled a central stage – the location of a long, large table, with a double-sided surface that could be rotated as needed. On the current side was a topographical map of the world, amended carefully and accurately to take into account the destruction wrought in the last seven years – what lay before the Ancient Prince was not the image of the world he once knew, or even of the world after the humans had ravaged it. What he saw now was a wasteland of grey dust and poisoned lakes; a world of death and decay.

With a hard, heavy stroke Nuada flipped the table to reveal its other side; the surface was as that of a mirror or reflecting pool, cool and silver, spanning the length of the table flawlessly. The flip-side of the Bethmora war-room table was a mirrormask – a reflecting pool that gave vision to thoughts. It was excellent for creating and amending battle strategies quickly and effectively; it was at this table that Prince Nuada and his generals plotted the destruction of the human race, reducing the population of the Earth, within the span of seven years, to just under the population of what was once New York.

For several minutes, the Elven Prince waited, his hands resting on the edges of the mirrormask, his head bowed below his shoulders. He had called a meeting upon his arrival at Bethmora – only one general and his battalion, as only one could be spared. For the mission the Prince had in mind, only a small number of warriors were necessary.

The men Nuada requested arrived quickly, at once, preceded by their commanding officer,

"Your Highness," their general greeted formally, descending to one knee before the Prince of Bethmora, his hand over his heart, head bowed.

"General Aereborne." Prince Nuada touched his hand to the glass table, willing images from his memory to appear there – they were the visages of the men who had taken the siren Bacchante, and the rest of her doomed kin. "They are pirates," the Prince explained briefly, "do whatever is necessary to find them, and after you've hunted them down," his golden eyes flashed with rage, "bring them to me alive."

* * *

Bacchante awoke to the stillness of her bedroom in Bethmora Palace the night that Prince Nuada had brought her there, from 12 hours of dreamless sleep. The room was dark as it was, and had been further dimmed for night. Her new chambers were relatively small – furnished only with the daybed on which Bacchante had slept and a small vanity, tucked into the opposite corner nearest the door. The walls were made from stone, from what the lady could tell, through they were covered almost entirely with moss and small ferns, growing out from cracks in the façade. The daybed was large and intoxicatingly comfortable, draped in white linen sheets and a down duvet – her entire body seemed to rest on pillows; there must have been a dozen adorning the bed. Lying still for a moment, Bacchante remembered well her rescue, and clearer yet the torment that preceded it; the days of utter agony that she refused to block out of her mind – the days that had made her afraid of the dark.

Silently and with quiet resignation, the siren lifted the heavy duvet from her and brought her feet down to the floor. She had been redressed, since she arrived – her skin and hair had been washed and were clean, and she had been provided with a white nightgown of something softer than cotton. Bacchante rose, gazing up at the ceiling of her bedroom – from it hung dozens of tiny, elaborate bottles, like glass orbs that shone white light down to the floor. Carefully, the siren reached up for one; taking it in the tips of her fingers, she noticed quickly that the light came from a liquid inside that fluoresced…

Bacchante's attention flicked quickly from her musings to the sound of the door to her room opening – a woman, a Palace maid stepped inside, carrying an ornate silver water pitcher on a tray.

"You're awake." The lady stated placidly, resting the tray with the pitcher on the room's vanity. "It's almost dawn. You should get dressed." The maid offered her hand to the siren – her skin was paler than Bacchante's, and almost golden; she was an Elf, like Prince Nuada… Quickly, Bacchante took the lady's hand and the maid guided her across the room.

"Are there no windows?" The siren remarked, finding her voice after a week of silence. The maid shook her head,

"We are underground; you are in the Palace-City of Bethmora." The servant led the siren to a door – not the door to the hall, but another, smaller entryway, placed beside the vanity. This opened to reveal a washroom, much larger than the bedroom she had come from – a large, porcelain claw-foot bath stood against a wall; smooth, flawless marble countertops and an ornately carved stone pedestal sink graced the suite. Ferns, vines and dozens more of the small vial-lights hung from the ceiling, making the room feel like a dark rainforest, or a garden.

The maid stepped over to a large cherry wood wardrobe and pulled open the massive doors – behind them were all manner of dresses and apparel, each crafted in gorgeous detail."This one ought to fit," The maid declared, pulling a conservative day-gown from the armoire. The servant glanced the siren up and down, before adding with a touch of cynicism, "well, one can only hope. Most Elves are thinner than you." Though slightly taken aback by the servant's rudeness, Bacchante chose simply to ignore her and admire the article of clothing she suggested. It was a gown of deep, dark green that shone copper in the light. Hundreds of tiny, dark brown beads and rhinestones dotted the dress' skirt, which billowed out voluminously, in a style long forgotten and abandoned by the human world.

"This way," the maid directed her to a private dressing area behind a standing screen. Admittedly, the gown was tighter than Bacchante would've liked and uncomfortable because of it; fortunately, a brief glance at her reflection in a standing mirror revealed that the poor fit of the garment was only evident to the wearer.

"There are brushes for your hair there-" the servant gestured before moving toward the door. "Do step outside quickly – you shan't want to miss the dawn." The siren paused a moment, stepping over to the intricate, ancient mirror the maid had indicated.

"Dawn? I thought Bethmora was underground."

"You'll see."

After only a minute following the servant's departure, Bacchante opened the door to her suite and stepped into the palace hall. The corridor was in fact a sort of balcony, open on the opposite side to a view of the entire subterranean city. Silently and softly, Bacchante padded along the hall beside a banister of carved stone that swept into solid, ornate columns, almost Victorian, holding up the roof above her.

In the still night-time serenity of the dimmed Palace hall, his presence struck her with a poignancy that was almost physical. There, standing before the balcony, his eyes on his city, was Prince Nuada Silverlance, of Bethmora. He stood, almost poised, his forearms resting on the balustrade; he was dressed for war, in red and black with his silver spear sheathed at his side, its gilded case glistening from out the darkness. His skin was a flawless pale, and almost shone – his hair a deep blonde, cascading effortlessly past his shoulders. The man's countenance was intimidating, almost frightening – his features were sharp and harsh; even from a distance, his golden eyes seemed to hold in them a coldness, and a ruthlessness like frost.

Bacchante stood for a moment in his presence, nearly breathless, her heart fluttering in her chest. Wordlessly and as quietly as possible she neared him: he who had murdered millions, who had initiated the holocaust of man, and who had shown her such kindness…

"I wanted to thank you," the Siren spoke, her voice just above a whisper. Immediately, she fell into a deep curtsy, under the gaze of his golden eyes. He exhaled audibly, almost in a scoff at her show of respect. Gently, he raised two fingers to the soft skin under her jaw and lifted her head, meeting her eyes of impossible blue with his own.

"Your deprecation is unnecessary," he answered her action, nearing the space between them. He had felt uneasy, restless - and somehow she calmed him, stilled the beating of his heart with her whispered praise. "Look," he spoke curtly, breaking a short silence.

Above them, hundreds of thousands of leaves, or blossoms unfurled from the city ceiling, dropping threads holding the same vials of light that graced her room. These were far, far brighter however, and by their luminescence Bacchante could see the city of Bethmora in all its dark beauty.

The city itself looked like the inside of a gothic cathedral, overrun by a rainforest. Massive pillars of stone, carved into intricate designs held a ceiling draped with long vines and ancient ivy, so thick that one could not see what lay above it. From her spot on the Palace gallery, the siren could see thousands upon thousands of houses and shop-fronts, all etched from the self-same stone and covered in varying degrees of vegetation, lights flickering on inside them as the city came to life. On the city floor a hundred feet below rushed a quick, clear underground river, its cadence of crashing water filling the air. Slowly the thick, sick-sweet scent of pollen descended from the ceiling, released by the flowers that freed the morning, filling the city with their peasant, dusty musk.

"It's beautiful," Bacchante breathed, leaning over the balustrade to drink in the city of Bethmora.

"It always was the darkest city," Nuada explained, his voice only slightly stronger than her own. "Now there is none other like it." Their silence was broken by the fluttering of wings, and the song of a bird as a small flock descended from their rooftop nests, to perch among the ivy and sip lightly from the city's stream.

"A nightingale?" the siren asked, her elation outweighing her fear of the Elven Royal. "I had thought they all perished, when the humans dropped their bombs." The Prince almost smiled,

"We managed to save a few. These are all that's left, of course." Lost in thought and her own pleasant awe, Bacchante recalled something she had once known, reminded of it…

_When leaves have fallen and skies turn to grey_

_The night keeps on closing in on the day_

_The nightingale sings his song of farewell…_

She stopped abruptly, realizing that she had been humming it softly. The man's eyes fixed on her, almost lost in her melody.

"I'm… I… I'm sorry," she hurried, covering her mouth with her hand. The Ancient Prince laughed softly in his throat,

"I've heard you sing before, through your memory." Bacchante breathed out slowly,

"Men have gone mad, listening to me sing; they lose themselves that way." Nuada Silverlance hummed softly, from deep in his chest,

"Perhaps it was never your singing, at all." Bacchante almost stepped back in surprise. His compliment had struck her as an arrow, and whether from the sudden praise or fear of her flatterer, the lady's heart beat wildly, as a sparrow trapped in her chest.

"Forgive me," the Prince of Bethmora uttered, his head turned from her, to his kingdom-city, "I was thoughtless."

The siren Bacchante stood silent for a moment, frozen in fear and a strange sort of empathy. She knew why he had amended his words, why he had apologized for his forward statement: he had seen her memories… He was not one of her assailants – a murderer, ruthless, merciless to his enemies, but never dishonourable. The lady almost scoffed at herself – she had known him, what? An hour, and yet she was defending him, playing Libra to his morality. And still, within him was something so entirely different, however dangerous… Slowly, Bacchante brought her hand down to his arm – her fingertips only just grazed the ebony fabric before she withdrew, startled by her own actions. She had paused long enough, however, for the Prince to notice her gesture, his golden eyes catching her with bemusement, surprise and lingering guilt.

"I was curious," the siren spoke carefully, breaking the tension, "the lights, they're everywhere in the city – I was wondering what they were; the liquid inside, how it could fluoresce quite so brightly." The Ancient Prince blinked slowly in response, as if momentarily confused by the strangeness of her inquiry,

"The alchemy behind it, you mean?" he furrowed his brow, half-smirking as he gazed up at the thousands of brilliant glass vials lighting Bethmora's sky. "I truly haven't the faintest idea," he admitted, almost blushing at his own ignorance. "You should ask one of our alchemists – they would be delighted to tell you, I'm sure." For a moment, the pair stood in fixed silence, drinking in the sight of daylight underground.

"I shall find out for you, I think." Prince Nuada stated finally, turning his head to Bacchante. She had time enough only to smile faintly in response before another arrived – a military officer, judging by his dress. He knelt briefly facing the Prince before he spoke,

"Your Highness, General Erised and his command have returned from the mountains." The man paused, his eyes never leaving his commander, "They report victory." The Ancient Royal stirred, pleased,

"Good – I shall join them in the war-room shortly." The officer bowed deeply before making his exodus,

"Yes, my Lord."

For several moments after his man left, Prince Nuada stood very still by the side of Bacchante, gazing out at his city. He breathing in the stillness that emanated from her, the peace that accompanied her countenance – if only for a time, before he descended deeper into the earth to plot murder and pain.

"Good day, Siren Bacchante." He said finally, his voice solemn with formality as he turned to leave for his birthright's obligation.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

**Chapter 3**

Prince Nuada Silverlance arrived at the Bethmora Palace war-room, preceded by the men of General Erised's battalion. The General himself was a calculating and proficient man – he accepted only the most elite warriors, and led them with a mechanized coldness that earned him a reputation for being one of the very best at the game of war.

"I trust there were no casualties," the Elven Royal mentioned, addressing the entire chamber, "else would I have been informed of them."

"None, your Majesty," an officer stated, kneeling before his Lord as he spoke. Nuada smiled wryly,

"I would expect no less from you, General."

"The targets have been silenced, as was planned," General Erised explained. "However, our intelligence officers have reported a small sect of mercenaries, operating from Yellowhead Pass–" General Erised strode over to the table, using a long pointer to indicate a Rocky Mountain valley illustrated on the topographic map. "We believe they may have prisoners." Nuada Silverlance answered first with a short silence, resting his hands on the edges of the map table.

"Tell the commanding officers to send their men home to rest. All ranking officials remain here. A strategy for a raid shall be devised – we leave for war as soon as possible."

* * *

Bacchante spent the remainder of the day wandering the halls of Bethmora Palace, and exploring Prince Nuada's city. Around noon, she returned to her room to find the petulant maid had left her a meagre brunch of fruit and half of an open-faced sandwich, comically served on grandiose, elegant, and much-too-large silver plates. Bacchante ate gratefully, albeit with the sinking feeling that she had been unwittingly put on some sort of diet…

The siren went out again, secretly hoping to see the Prince – to speak with him, or even simply stand under the spell of his countenance; but the lady did not see him again that day. Rather, Bacchante returned to her room and retired early, sinking in to the decadent frills of her daybed and dreaming of nightingales.

* * *

When Bacchante awoke the next morning, a silver tray with her breakfast had been placed on the vanity; on it (to her dual disappointment and suspicion) was a single, solitary blueberry scone. A medium-sized teapot, all in silver, was provided with two small tea sachets resting in their own tray. Quickly, the siren stepped over to the teapot – the water inside was still very hot. She lifted the tea sachets gently to her nose, the rich, bold, vaguely musky scent of earl grey assailing her pleasantly. Bacchante dropped the sachets into the steaming water, her attention flicking to a large book placed next to her breakfast.

It was a massive tome, bound in burgundy leather with gold leafing, though the elegant trim had faded slightly with years of use. In large, embossed letters, the title "Luminescent Alchemy" was printed across the smooth, supple cover. Bacchante opened the text on her vanity; inside the front cover was tucked a plain, unmarked white envelope – the siren absently set it aside and flipped through the book's pages. It was a moderately advance text - understandable only with her foreknowledge of the topic. Several sections in the reference book had been marked – the first was an article entitled "Luciferin Fluorescence"; it went on for twenty pages, explaining in painstaking detail the process of creating the light vials that hung from the city ceiling, and graced her bedroom even now.

Bacchante smiled amusedly – she had expected Prince Nuada to procure some information for her, but she hadn't been certain how he would accomplish it. As she closed the tome, the siren noticed a small leather pouch, closed with a drawstring, lying next to her breakfast tray. The lady took it in her hands and opened it – inside were perhaps 50 gold pieces – the standard currency of the Netherworld, when bartering was deemed inappropriate. The amount of money provided was substantial without proving ostentatious – the equivalent of no more than 500 dollars.

Once she was certain she had accounted for all her gifts, Bacchante regarded the letter that accompanied them. Though it had no markings, it was sealed with crimson wax and stamped with the royal seal. She broke it gently and removed the paper inside; it was high quality stationary, smooth and crisp in her fingertips; it read:

_I hope you find this volume sufficient to quell your curiosity. Do not perceive its simplicity as an insult to you – I am told it is the most thorough available, as well as the most relevant. Enjoy the city._

Though the note was unsigned, Bacchante had little doubt as to who had sent it. Prince Nuada's handwriting was sharp and elegant, though it appeared rushed in this instance, as though the note had been written quickly, perhaps while he was standing. Content, she replaced the note in its envelope and tucked it into a drawer in her vanity.

Engrossed in the book Prince Nuada had given her, Bacchante did not leave her chambers until well passed sunset, and only then to drink in the city of Bethmora at night. Gently, she opened her bedroom door and closed it behind her, softly padding down the long, dim Palace hallway. The siren thought perhaps she would go to the Palace foyer, a small pavilion with an excellent view of the city of Bethmora…

It was then, that night that Bacchante saw Prince Nuada Silverlance again. He was walking quickly the opposite way, as if with a destination in mind – Bacchante stopped when she saw him, pressing herself gently against the wall to let him pass. She was half surprised when he stopped before her.

"Your Highness," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper in the stillness of the corridor-balcony. Bacchante dipped into a low curtsy.

"I believe I've told you once already, you owe me no hollow formalities – do not force me to remind you again." His reply was intended to be light and nonchalant, but the power of his countenance lent his words an unintended severity. Surely, Bacchante would have been frightened, were his speech not also laced with fatigue… When she looked up at him properly, she could see why. He was dressed in the same clothes she'd seen him in the morning of yesterday; he looked as if he hadn't slept at all since then, his golden skin pale and eyes dark. She answered him carefully,

"I thought, if someone were to see… it would be… inappropriate." Prince Nuada arched an elegant eyebrow,

"I see no one." His reply was calm and silky, exuding dominance and control – the Ancient Prince's words played tirelessly on the fluttering of Bacchante's heart, a warm flush rushing through her body, making her weak.

"Thank you for the Alchemy volume," the siren managed after a small silence. The Prince smiled,

"You liked it? Good." She hummed in agreement,

"I used to be very much interested in Arcane Chemistry; I had dozens of books of my own." The lady paused, "It was… unnecessary of you, but, very kind. How ever did you have the time to procure it?"

"It was no trouble at all." He glanced at her carefully after his words, drinking in her presence. "Would you like to come with me to the Solarium?" Bacchante lifted her eyes from his,

"I couldn't possibly! You- you look as though you haven't slept since last I saw you. I shouldn't keep you from your rest." The Royal half-scoffed in response,

"I confess, I haven't. There was a situation brought to my attention that required immediate military action – such things demand my absolute involvement." He continued, less gravely, "However, at least for now, my time is mine to do with as I please – I insist you indulge me." Bacchante imagined, accurately so, that Prince Nuada of the Silverlance had spent more than 36 hours in the Palace war room, plotting the destruction of some unlucky target – from what little she knew of this Ancient Royal, she could see that this was his nature: a tireless, selfless pursuit of what he believed in, and an absolute devotion to his birthright.

"You leave me no choice but to accept."

At her word, the Prince of Bethmora led Bacchante to the Palace pavilion, and down a short, stone stairway she had not thought to take while exploring the city. It led to a small courtyard, positioned in the very, very center of Bethmora Palace.

The Solarium was a fantastic indoor garden with foliage more dense than that of the rest of the city, and air far more temperate. A glass dome ceiling, constructed of elaborate ironwork closed the Solarium from above, allowing in light from several dimmed luminescent vials hanging on the other side of the glass, as if to simulate the night sky.

Upon entering however, Bacchante was not drawn to the garden itself, but rather to a magnificent, elaborate fountain standing in the very center of the courtyard. The water-feature was imposing and altogether far too large for the small Solarium: four tiers of cascading water stood taller than she, perhaps ten feet from the floor. Bacchante stepped over toward the massive fountain, her fingers lightly grazing the limestone; she noticed that sigils, alchemic symbols had been cut into it, covering almost every inch of the fountain's surface… Before she could take a closer look, Prince Nuada clasped his hand over her wrist, pulling her gently from the water feature.

He guided her through the Solarium to a large, semi-circular stone bench tucked away deep in the dense foliage. He sat down first, immediately breathing a long, fatigued sigh; the Prince reclined, almost languidly, throwing his head back to gaze up at the chemical underground sky. To Bacchante, seeing him this way was at once strange and disconcerting, like watching a dragon dreaming.

She joined him quickly, sitting with perhaps two feet between them – as acquaintances, she thought.

"I come here when I need… stillness." Prince Nuada spoke, breaking the silence of the Solarium. It was only upon hearing his words that Bacchante realized how long they had sat together without speaking; it had been a comfortable serenity; natural, and somehow appropriate. The siren looked at him with empathy – she had not realized, or even imagined the burden he bore... She wondered if it was regret; if the conviction that drove him to slaughter six billion humans was failing him…

"Tranquility clings to you," he began once more, without looking at the lady of whom he was speaking, "your presence quells my rage." Bacchante stirred at his comment,

"Is your indignation truly so complete that you fight to conquer it?"

"It is."

"Then for your rage, I pity you." Bacchante lifted her eyes to him, Prince still reclining in his darkened garden. He flashed his eyes to hers, meeting them for only an instant,

"Pity those who inspire it." The Ancient Prince's reply was saturated with pride and laced with a dangerous wrath – for a moment, Bacchante's heart skipped, and beat harder within her.

"And who provokes your rage?" the siren could see his eyes narrow slightly, though his gaze was once more transfixed on the alchemic stars.

"The wicked, and the hollow." Prince Silverlance's voice rang with loathing – a hatred that comes only from experience, and witnessing that of which he spoke. Her question filled him suddenly with a desire, and almost desperate, impulsive need to protect the lady, to slaughter those who had wronged her and forever shield her from the cruelty of the depraved. The feeling flooded his soul, uncontrollable and almost carnal; the rage he had for those who abused her and the empathy, a sort of tenderness, he felt for the siren herself clashed within him in bitter resolution. Bacchante watched his eyes in the moments after he spoke, and they frightened her.

The Prince of Bethmora could taste her terror; he wished, wildly, that he could allay it – that he could protect her from the world he had created…

Quickly, almost impulsively, Prince Nuada rose from the bench, standing for a moment before Bacchante, deciding what to say. He couldn't be here – he would reveal too much; he would speak something in exhaustion that she would interpret as… and any trust she had for him would vanish.

"Thank you for enduring me," the Prince of Bethmora mentioned finally, bowing his head to the lady in politeness. "It is late."

"It was a pleasure," Bacchante countered quickly, mildly confused by his sudden aloofness, "but you are correct." She sighed; he did not offer to walk her to her room, or provide any cordial exodus. He merely turned from her and left the Solarium, dotted with Luciferin lamps and filled with the murmur of the rushing fountain.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

**Chapter 4**

Bacchante spent the following day in the city. She re-visited the shops she had seen when she first explored Bethmora, but bought only trifles – a slice of chocolate cake, and an espresso sold by a Sphinx from Syria. When she did return to Prince Nuada's Palace, Bacchante resumed her wandering, absently searching for useful rooms. Half of her was seeking the beautiful Solarium Prince Nuada Silverlance had shown her the night before – she imagined it would look entirely different in the day; likely it would be bright, she thought, as if sun-drenched – she doubted they called it the Solarium for nothing.

Bacchante had been walking pleasantly about the Palace for nearly forty-five minutes before she came to an archway, which opened to a stairwell leading deeper into the earth. The stairway and ensuing corridor were narrower than those of the rest of the palace, and seemed somehow older... The lady descended.

Beyond the narrow hall at the base of the stairs, Bacchante heard a whisper of sound – the faint whistle of movement. It nearly made her stop, for fear of walking in on some meeting room or important political discussion – but then those doors would surely be locked.

The siren turned a final corner, and stood in breathless awe. In a large, open room, a sort of training room, she saw the Prince of Bethmora; he was practicing with a silver spear, the weapon sailing effortlessly through the air at the command of his slightest gesture. The Prince was shirtless, his muscles rippling under his golden-white skin. A thin layer of cold sweat glistened on his chest – the only evidence of any physical strain from his training.

In the moments following her intrusion, the lady waited in absolute silence. Her presence, it seemed, had gone unnoticed, for the Prince did not stop. She watched in veneration as the Ancient Royal wielded his weapon – his skill was unquestionable and wickedly enthralling, like watching a falcon catch a sparrow in flight.

It was several seconds after first seeing him that Bacchante dared to look more closely, and only then did she notice his scars. Healed wounds, perhaps inflicted by swords or daggers laced across the muscles on his back and chest, the skin that knitted over the old incisions whiter than the rest of his flesh. Seeing them surprised her, and struck her with a deeply felt pity – there were many of them… Upon realizing this, Bacchante nearly cried a moan of condolence, though she did not fully understand why; she reminded herself that he was very nearly a stranger, that he was a murderer – he had committed genocide. Yet, the thought of him in pain resonated within her, as if her heart had been bound with wire and were being torn apart.

Without warning, the siren was pulled from her musings at the sight of Prince Nuada's golden eyes fixed on her. He stood poised, almost pleased, his spear extended in his arm with its silver tip aimed at her heart.

"Come in." Pensively, after a moment's hesitation, the lady stepped into the training room. It was a chamber different from most others in the palace – all greenery had been removed from the walls, and the floor was made from interwoven strips of bamboo, soft and supple beneath her feet. Once she entered Prince Nuada withdrew his weapon, resting it jauntily across his shoulder-blades – standing like this before her, Bacchante was struck speechless by the sheer dominance and animalistic severity of his presence. She had not noticed that the Prince of Bethmora was indeed an incredibly attractive man, though his was in every aspect the dangerous grace of a predator.

"May I help you?" his question broke the silent tension. The reply it induced forced the lady to draw a full breath – before that, she had hardly been respiring at all for fear of being noticed.

"Oh, no–I–was, simply wandering the Palace. I came here quite by mistake." Her response strengthened as she spoke, though the magnitude of her voice did not exceed a whisper.

"Mistake?" his reply was silken sound, soft and commanding, "Now that you have found me, do you wish to leave?"

"I will stay, unless you wish me gone."

He laughed in answer, from somewhere deep in his throat, "Not at all. Come into my parlour." _Says the spider to the fly_, Bacchante added mentally, her heart racing in her chest.

Carefully, the siren stepped further into the underground room. The Ancient Royal turned from her, spear in hand; the weapon shortened at his command and he sheathed it in the same silver case the lady had seen before, glinting at his side.

"I leave for war in two days."

"How long will you be away?"

"Not long, if all goes well. I will be travelling to the mountains in the continental interior, accompanying a General of mine and his battalion. They are extremely proficient." The Prince's answer was gentle and polite, but firm with resignation.

"And what mission would require the presence of the Prince himself?"

"The target is a band of mercenaries. It is likely they have prisoners."

Bacchante breathed slowly, meeting his eyes for a moment, "The prisoners - are they Elves?"

"I couldn't tell you." He answered with a rueful smirk, finding in this detail some dark, sardonic humour.

The lady uttered an audible scoff, a mix of confusion and incredible pity, "And you would risk your life for creatures you know not of?"

"I ask nothing of my men that I would not give of myself."

"Doubtless, your intentions are noble," Bacchante began carefully, "but are you certain of their practicality?"

"I refuse to lead from a throne, sending men to die for my war in _cowardice_," his eyes flashed as he spoke, but his tone was placid and she knew his indignation was never meant for her, "Passive kings are assassinated and usurped. I would rather _die_ by my people's side than live, deserving of their betrayal."

"And if you fell in battle, who would inherit your kingdom?" Bacchante persisted, stepping timidly away from him even as she spoke, "You have no heir – or am I wrong?"

"I have none." Prince Nuada paused for a moment and continued calmly, noticing the lady's apprehension, "If I perished, fair Bethmora would fall into the command of an old, old friend; a prince as it is, he has no lust for power – he would rule with a gentle hand, I'm sure of it."

"Be that as it may, with your death, your bloodline dies." Prince Nuada caught the lady's eyes for a fleeting moment, a silken smirk playing wickedly across his sharp features,

"Perhaps one day it will not be so." Bacchante attempted to scoff, but her reply came as little more than a delicate gasp. She had dared to speak to him, to question him, and he answered candidly; she wondered if he knew how much he frightened her.

Without another word, Prince Nuada walked over – to her, she thought – quickly, Bacchante back-stepped into the hallway exit leading from the training room, and he followed. _Oh_, she thought, chiding herself, _he's leaving; of course, how ridiculous of me…_ Before she could think more, the Ancient Prince passed her in the corridor, and for a moment, time seemed to stop.

In the narrowness of the hall, they stood very near each other – with mere inches separating the fragile fabric of her gown from his bare chest. She didn't dare meet his eyes then, but for fear of closing them turned to his scars. Whether because of her nervousness or the sheer power of his countenance, Bacchante's pity waned slightly, subsiding to disquietude that caught in her throat and fluttered in her chest. For an instant, she felt the whisper of his breath on her hair, and the lady shivered deeply. Wildly, she wondered if he would kiss her, if he would press his smirking lips against hers, and trap her in the narrow corridor…

The moment lasted only very briefly – hardly an instant, and before she could catch her breath he had already stepped free of her.

"Wait!" she called after him, before she could stop herself. The Prince of Bethmora turned to her once again, "You said your mission… that, you would be back soon. How- how long will you be away?"

"A month. Two, perhaps."

"_Two months?_" The lady cried out in minor frustration; he very nearly laughed at her then, if only in endearment,

"Truly, that isn't long. Farewell, Lady Bacchante." With this final sentiment he vanished down the hall, before she found the chance to ask if she would see him again before he left her.

* * *

Author's Note: I'll try to be brief. First of all, I apologise for the formulaic structure of chapters 2-4… I think this ended up happening because I never write with chapters in mind. In any case, I don't really like these chapters anyway, so I'll probably re-work them once I've finished the story completely. Also, sorry chapter 4 is so short.

Second, this story is going to get darker, and more romantic eventually (this fic isn't rated M for nothing.) I realize I haven't exactly been writing about rainbows and kittens thus far... Honestly I've written much worse. The "darkness" warning is in advance, for later chapters...

Oh! And just to finish off on an incredibly cliché note, I wanted to thank all my lovely reviewers. I read your comments, I appreciate you, and I'm not ignoring you.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: For this chapter, I borrow characters from Tolkien, but I give them back far too quickly for this story to be considered a crossover. I don't follow LotR canon at all.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Bacchante did not speak to Prince Nuada Silverlance again for the better part of ten weeks. She saw him early the morning he left for the mountains; he was standing with his warriors, dressed in full war regalia. He did not see her then, watching him from the gallery outside her chambers and she was glad of it, for as he spoke to the battalion General and presided over his legion, the Prince showed no sign of compassion but rather a ruthlessness that frightened Bacchante, and made her shudder deeply.

The first month of Prince Nuada's absence passed without incident; Bacchante spent her time in his city, gradually acquainting herself with its many shops and pavilions. She inquired once to the owner of a teashop if the people of Bethmora missed their Monarch's leadership,

"The city of Bethmora has existed for five thousand years... it hasn't changed. There's little for his Majesty to do within its walls…" the shop-owner sighed heavily, with bitter resignation, "These times call for a warrior-king."

"Why has Prince Silverlance _not_ yet been crowned King?"

"Custom dictates that the Prince must be wed before there can be a coronation." She shrugged, resting her forearms on her shop counter, "It is of little consequence; he is the King of Bethmora in all but name."

The siren left the woman's store with a melancholy heart. From what the shop-owner said, Bacchante saw that Nuada Silverlance's absences were long and frequent; glancing out over the beauty of his underground city, the lady could not help but feel a certain emptiness in the Prince's cavern-kingdom.

* * *

On the fifth week after Prince Nuada left for war in the mountains, refugees arrived. Bacchante saw them as they were brought into the city, covered with filth and weary from travel, escorted by perhaps fifteen of Nuada's soldiers.

"What are they?" the siren asked, descending from the palace foyer to a large pavilion below where the refugees were gathering.

"Halflings," an Elvish nurse answered her, carrying a pitcher of water for them.

"Hobbits?" Bacchante had read about the creatures, once common to the English countryside, but she had never seen one. Now there were twenty-five of them at least, perhaps more, resting on the pavilion's concrete benches. Some had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion while others gazed at the magnificent city in awe, and bitter disbelief. Few conversed softly and wearily amongst themselves, grateful for the nurses' doting.

"Sir, forgive me," Bacchante began, approaching one of Nuada's warriors who had come with the Halflings, "is Prince Silverlance not among you? I did not see him enter the city."

"His Majesty remained in the mountains to fight the last of the mercenaries, my lady. I do not know when he or the remainder of General Erised's battalion will return." Bacchante let the soldier leave. A part of her suspected that the Prince would do as much; he would not return, she knew, until he had slaughtered every last enemy - and some day, he would likely die trying to accomplish it.

"Pardon me, Ma'am," a voice stirred behind the lady, pulling her from her grim reverie, "do you know how I could get a letter out? I'm trying to find someone, you see. It's very important." Bacchante turned, finding a Hobbit standing behind her.

"What is your name?"

"Samwise Gamgee, Ma'am. But if you could please tell me where to find the postmaster-"

"You see the underground river that runs through the city? There's a small estuary that's used as a port; the postmaster's office is there. He can send your message down the river, to any of the Netherworld cities connected to it." The lady paused a moment before she spoke again, "Whom is it you see so fervently?"

"My wife, Rosie." The Halfling bit his lip, "She and the children got away when the men came and burned the Shire – it's the second time it's been burned, you know. The rest of us who tried to defend it were taken prisoner."

"How long ago was this?"

"I don't rightly know; they took us to the mountains and across the sea, so it's hard to tell seasons. It was Spring when they destroyed Hobbiton." Bacchante let her eyes fall from his. Though Bethmora knew no seasons, there were calendar-clocks throughout the Palace; it was almost February.

"Mister Gamgee, you are… probably very tired, and in need of rest. Surely, any letter could just as easily be sent tomorrow-"

He cut her off before she could finish, "No! I have to send it now – don't you see? It's my _wife_; if she's out there, she has to know that I'm alive…"

Bacchante shook her head in confusion, "But you've been parted so long; surely one more day wouldn't make a difference-"

"You don't understand! One day makes all the difference in the world!" He clenched his fists, shaking with frustration and bitter anger, "Haven't you ever loved anybody at all?!" The siren let him finish, and said nothing as he brushed his way through the refugees, out of sight.

* * *

"Frodo, do you think they'll let us stay here?" asked Peregrin Took three weeks later, trailing after his friend while trying to devour a slice of lemon cake quite without chewing. The four of them, Frodo Baggins, Merry Brandybuck, Pippin Took and Samwise Gamgee had wandered up to the Palace foyer courtyard; from where Bacchante was standing on the gallery outside her room, she overheard their conversation…

"Not indefinitely, Pippin – the innkeeper said she'd put us up for a month, and that was all."

"But couldn't we work? Earn our own money, maybe buy a house?" Frodo Baggins laughed in mirth,

"Doing what?" It was Merry who answered,

"Well, we're good at growing things. I'm sure if we asked the Prince, he'd give us fields or," the Hobbit glanced up at the city's cavern walls suspiciously, "whatever the Elves have instead of fields." Sam Gamgee spat on the ground,

"Prince Nuada Silverlance won't give us nothin'," Bacchante, who had been half-listening to them, turned to the Halflings in earnest at the comment, "he's got a heart of stone – a crueller man than he never lived." The siren took a step toward the Hobbits, her brow furrowed in aggravated concern,

"You speak quite definitively of a man you've never met," she stated at once, addressing the Hobbit Samwise Gamgee.

"I don't need to meet him to know what he is – what he's done's plenty enough for that," Sam scowled in answer.

"What he's done?!" Bacchante scoffed haughtily, "Prince Silverlance has done nothing to you, except to save you from the mercenaries-"

"Save us? We wouldn't need savin' if it weren't for him and his war. This is his fault – all of it."

The siren shook her head, "It was _men_ who destroyed your home!"

"Men that never would've even come lookin' for the Shire were it not for him," Sam sneered, his words heavy with bitterness.

"You… you don't understand," Bacchante countered, almost desperately, "the Prince _himself_ went to save you; he, he heard that you were being held prisoner, and even though he didn't know you, he took it upon himself to rescue you."

"Really then? If that's true, where's your prince now?"

The lady breathed an exasperated sigh, "He's… he hasn't returned – he's still fighting the men who kept you prisoner."

Sam scoffed loudly, "You see? You see, how much this war consumes him? It's the mark of a bad leader and a _hollow_ king to let himself be ruled by _bloodlust_."

"No! No, you don't understand _at all!_" When Bacchante spoke again, her voice was weak with frustration, and she quivered trying to hold back her tears, "It's you who doesn't see! You don't know how much he suffers, how much he agonizes over creatures like you, who could sooner stab him in the back than…"

"Maybe he _should_ suffer," it was Sam's turn to shake with rage, "he should _suffer_, for all the pain and misery he's caused others. It's all good and well of you to defend him like that – you live here, in this beautiful place." He spat the word _beautiful_, like a piece of putrid fruit, "But when the humans find it, and they will, and when they burn it so's no one would even ever know it was, your prince'll find himself in some real trouble – see if anyone's as compassionate as you then."

* * *

High in the Rocky Mountains, Winter chill still hung in the frosted air, bitter cold reigning even when most of the world gave way to Spring. On a snow-covered outcrop overlooking his battalion, Prince Silverlance stood alone, the icy air whipping through his long, blonde hair; it would be a long, long time before Spring ever came here…

Suddenly, two shots echoed through the stillness of the Winter morning, loud, sudden and clear.

"Get _down_!" General Erised shouted to his command, the Elven warriors immediately falling to the snow at their captain's warning. _So there are more_, Prince Silverlance thought, dropping to the snow-bank. He was surprised the mercenaries fired at them; while guns were easy to come by, ammunition was not – surely, the remaining men would not have fired if they didn't have a good shot – that, or if they knew they would not last the day.

High above the Elves, hidden partially behind the mountainside, Nuada Silverlance caught the sight of movement – some black form dodging between the rocks. Quickly, his eyes met those of Commander Adrastos – one of the battalion armed with a bow. The Prince's old friend nodded curtly to his Lord; he cocked an arrow, pulled back and fired at the target. A sharp whistle of fletching through air, a stifled moan of pain, and a mercenary fell from the mountainside, dead before his body hit the snow.

In a wave, without warning, mercenaries – perhaps twenty of them shot up from the rocks behind Erised's battalion. Most armed with swords and some with guns, they descended on the legion.

Death came on swift wings to the men who fought the Elves and their Prince that Winter morning, the crisp, white snow stained pink with human blood. Nuada fought them viciously; the humans quickly recognized him as their leader and attacked with all the more fervour. One of the human soldiers crouched behind a rock and shot at him from a distance; Prince Nuada flicked his attention at the sound of the safety clicking off on the mortal's weapon – before the shot struck him, the Ancient Prince wielded his spear, and deflected the bullet aside. At once, another mercenary struck from behind, aiming to kill Bethmora's Prince with a sword through his back. Nuada turned, but before he could stop the man's blade with his own, the soldier's stroke fell, tearing a long, deep gash across the Prince's chest. Teeth clenched to the pain, Prince Silverlance thrust his spear into the man's heart, striking him dead.

In a momentary lull, Nuada felt his own blood fall from the wound, dripping onto the snow to mingle with that of the men he'd already slain…

"Your Majesty–" the Prince's musing was interrupted by the worried voice of Commander Adrastos, his friend and subordinate's gaze transfixed on the still bleeding gash.

"Adrastos!" Nuada called, seeing the sniper's scope fixed on the Commander's back. Before the Commander could turn, the mercenary sniper fired. Prince Silverlance clasped the Commander's shirt in his fist and pulled him to the snow, and the bullet meant for Adrastos sailed into the side of General Erised. No sooner had the Elven warriors realized what had happened than one of them cocked an arrow and shot the sniper dead – but not before their captain died on the mountainside, his spirit gone and body turned to marble.

Prince Silverlance and Erised's legion fought the mercenaries with all the more tenacity and cruelty at the fall of their General, slaughtering the humans quickly, in cold-blood massacre. Once the last of the enemy had been struck down and lay either dead or dying in the morning snow, Nuada Silverlance walked between them, stopping only once he'd found one that remained alive and able to speak. With practiced ease, the Ancient Prince twisted his weapon in the air above the mercenary, bringing it down so the spear's tip drew a thin line of blood across the soldier's neck. He was young, Nuada noticed as he looked at the mercenary – no more than a boy.

"Are there more of you?" The Prince's voice was harsh, and colder than the Winter air. The boy opened his eyes to his tormentor, narrowing them defiantly at the sight of the Elf, whom he'd been taught to hate. "Speak!" the Ancient Royal commanded, "Or I shall teach you the meaning of _suffering_."

"None," the boy answered weakly, coughing up blood as he replied, "You – may have killed us," he continued, almost wearily, "but… you can't kill all of humanity." The young mercenary fought to keep his eyes open, heavy from pain, "You'll never win." As soon as he finished, Prince Nuada brought his spear down across the boy's neck in earnest, cleaving his head from his body in a single, clean stroke.

"We're going home," the Ancient Prince announced to the battalion, his voice resonating in the Winter air that was still once more.

"My Prince," one of the warriors spoke, glancing briefly at the marble corpse of his captain, "what of General Erised?" Nuada Silverlance narrowed his eyes in cold determination,

"Leave him. We have wounded as it is – expenditures cannot be made for the dead." At their Lord's bidding the Elven soldiers left the battlefield, those trained in medicine addressing the injuries sustained by their own.

For a time, Prince Silverlance stood back from the massacre, watching as his legion prepared for the trek home. Silently, Commander Adrastos approached the Prince; before Nuada could stop him, Adrastos put his hand on the Prince's wounded shoulder and pressed down, drawing attention to the injury. Silverlance glared at the Commander and winced in response; Adrastos answered with a bitter, satisfied scoff,

"You should find a medic."

Prince Nuada smirked wryly at his comrade, "I will survive without aid. Some of the men below will not."

Adrastos cast his friend and Monarch a snide glance, "Your pride is quite astounding, my liege."

Nuada laughed aloud, "Indeed."

* * *

"This is our last day here," Frodo Baggins said to the siren Bacchante, approaching her as she stood on the Palace gallery. He had not spoken to her since she argued with Sam – a week had passed since then. "I thought I'd say goodbye, before I left."

"I certainly didn't think you would, after what I said to your friend."

"It isn't your fault." He paused a moment and looked at her, standing at the balustrade, her white fingers gently resting on the stone. "I see you standing here every day, waiting – you're waiting for him, aren't you? For Prince Silverlance to return." Bacchante looked down at the small hobbit, her eyes tired with a sort of pain. She said nothing. "You love him, don't you?"

"That's ridiculous." Her reply was light, as if her tone itself could dismiss Frodo's argument.

"But it's obvious you do – if not from how you stand here waiting for him, than how you defended him in front of Sam. You're in love with him – you're in love with the Prince of Bethmora."

"I've spoken with Prince Silverlance three times since I've met him."

"Sam said he fell in love with Rosie Cotton the first time he laid eyes on her." Frodo laughed, "Besides, who are you trying to convince, me, or yourself?"

"I don't think it's fair to compare the Prince and myself to your friend and this… Rosie."

"Why not?" Frodo said this with a light-hearted scoff, but behind it Bacchante felt and undercurrent of something like indignation; she didn't have to be told that Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee were fierce friends.

"Your friend was never a Prince – I'm sure he never had to face anything like…"She trailed off, and for a long while, Frodo and Bacchante stood in silence, looking out over the Elvish Prince's city.

"You would stand by him, wouldn't you? If what Sam said every happened, and his people turned on him, and he wasn't the king of anything, you would still be loyal to him."

"He saved my life."

"Your loyalty to him runs deeper than that... I hope for your sake Prince Silverlance isn't as bad as everyone seems to say he is." Frodo Baggins stopped for a moment, drawing in a deep breath, "Goodbye, my lady."

After the Hobbits left the city of the Elves, the Siren wondered if what Samwise Gamgee had said in anger was valid - not only his threat that Nuada Silverlance would fall from grace, but that he truly was a cruel and heartless man. Bacchante nearly cried, for if what the Hobbit said was true - if her golden prince had a heart of lead, she would gladly be the swallow that stays through the Winter of his demise, and dies at his feet.

* * *

Author's Note: If you don't get the last line, you _must_ read Oscar Wilde's _The Happy Prince._ It's short, tragic, and amazing.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

**Chapter 6**

It was a four-day trek from Yellowhead Pass to the city of Bethmora and on the fifth day, Prince Nuada returned home. When Bacchante saw him enter the city he was still dressed for war, and looked terrible and ferocious because of it. Soldiers surrounded him – the siren gripped the balustrade with her fingertips, turning them white as she saw nurses and medics tending to Nuada's troops; the lady breathed a sigh of relief as the Prince directed the nurses, and that was all…

After what felt like a very long time, the Elvish warriors dispersed, either allowed to return home or taken to a hospital if need be; only then was the Prince of Bethmora free to leave for his Palace. He ascended the many stairs to his grand foyer alone while Bacchante waited for him in the shadows of the gallery; she wanted to approach him, to be as near to him as she had been that day in the hallway of his training room, but she didn't dare…

"Lady Bacchante," Prince Nuada called to her, seeing her standing in the shade. She stepped over to him as soon as he'd spoken her name. Without thinking, she embraced him, drinking in the warmth of his presence; the lady pulled away before he could return the gesture – a part of her wondered if he even would have.

"I missed you," she said in justification, her voice soft and sheepish...

When she withdrew, she was covered in blood, deep crimson from his clothes staining her pale skin, like a fawn slaughtered in spring snow. It took her only a moment to realize that her flesh was tainted, the white skin on her chest and neck blemished with red.

"Don't be frightened," the Ancient Prince assured with silken ease, watching her horror at the sight of the blood, "it isn't mine." He knew even as he said this that he spoke a lie – that in her welcome she reopened the wound on his chest that only in the last day had begun to heal.

Bacchante's terror came and passed in a uneasy wave. She hadn't noticed the blood staining the black fabric of his clothes, crimson hidden by the ebony he wore…

"It _is_ yours!" Bacchante exclaimed suddenly; she touched her fingers to his shirt – the fabric was frayed beneath her hand; she parted the slit, revealing under it the deep gash that ran from the Prince's shoulder to his breastbone.

"It's nothing," he answered softly, his tone unchanged. His calmness unnerved the lady, and she withdrew her touch,

"You should see a doctor…"

"That won't be necessary." Prince Nuada's reply was quick - quick enough that Bacchante caught something in it, some intent he would not share so readily.

"You're seriously hurt."

"I've endured worse than this, I assure you," he continued almost contritely, "It's of no consequence; I've tolerated this for five days, and I've survived this long."

"You've reopened the wound – you could become seriously ill. At the very least, let the nurses stitch it…" The lady intended her reply to be firm and resolute, but when she spoke, her words came out a plea.

"As I've said, I will _not_ need a doctor."

Bacchante scoffed, "Your refuse so adamantly – surely, you can't be afraid."

"Of doctors?" he retorted scornfully, "No, I've nothing to fear from _doctors_." Prince Nuada spoke with such bitterness that the siren thought the better of fighting his statement, or questioning the meaning it implied.

"Your shoulder must be tended to, regardless…" she began meekly, "if you will not seek help from a medic,_ I_ could... stitch it for you." Prince Nuada raised an elegant eyebrow at her offer,

"Would you know what you're doing?"

"It isn't difficult!" she countered sharply - defensively enough that she earned a small smirk from the Elf. _So she's still proud_, he thought, _even now…_

"Then I accept your offer. I would rather avoid the hospital, if possible; my training hall is a sufficient place for you to perform this minor surgery." He paused, and continued with slightly less propriety, "I trust you remember it." Prince Nuada caught himself smirking inwardly as he saw Bacchante flush at his statement. Perhaps ten weeks was a longer time than he'd imagined, and not only for the lady…

"I remember it."

They walked in silence from the foyer to the narrow staircase that led to the Prince's training room; Bacchante's breath caught in her throat as they passed the place in the hall where they had been so very near each other, before he'd left for war...

"Is there a chair or…" the siren began once they entered the room, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Through that door," the Ancient Prince answered, pointing to an entryway on the opposite side of the training room. "There are needles and surgical thread in that armoire," he continued, gesturing to a cabinet next to the entrance they had just come through. Silently, Bacchante walked over to the cherry-wood standing cupboard and opened the drawer – in it she found the stitching supplies as promised, as well as a bowl of cotton balls and a bottle of disinfectant. The lady wondered how often Prince Nuada tended to his own injuries… and why. Surely, he couldn't possibly be so proud that he would not see a doctor… What he'd said earlier intrigued her; he said so unflinchingly that he had nothing to fear _from doctors_ – if not them, what did this ruthless Elvish Prince fear?

Bacchante took several items from the armoire and followed the Prince through the door into an adjoining room. It was a small chamber - not a study really, but a room with a desk, chairs and chesterfields. Before Bacchante could inquire what the room was used for, Prince Silverlance unbuttoned his shirt, letting the black garment slide off his shoulders. He caught it effortlessly in his hand before it fell to the floor, and draped it over the back of a nearby chair. The Prince stepped over to a green chase lounge and languidly reclined on it, draping his arm over its edge in a pose of confident contentment.

Seeing him this way, Lady Bacchante did not trust herself to speak. Rather, she hurried to arrange the medical supplies on a nearby coffee table. The chase was large enough for both herself and the Prince; she sat on the edge nearest the table, so that she could tend to his wound easily…

The long gash across the man's chest was deep and ugly, and immediately Bacchante set about cleaning it. She dabbed a cotton ball with antiseptic, and for an instant let her hand hover above his flesh... She could feel the heat from his chest and noticed his muscles rise and fall gently with each breath he took; despite any imperfection caused by a gash or scar, his body took her breath away.

"How did this happen?" Bacchante asked carefully, as she touched the antiseptic to the wound, disinfectant hissing angrily on contact.

"A battle, with the mercenaries on a mountainside."

"And you defeated them?"

"Yes."

"Losses?" the lady paused a moment before she asked.

"On that day, the commanding General."

"Did you know him?" Prince Silverlance shook his head,

"Not well." He paused a moment before he spoke again, "I was fighting alongside an old friend of mine – a sniper aimed at him; I pulled him from the line of fire, and that same bullet killed his General." There was a momentary pause, "I saved one man's life, and in so doing condemned another to death." Bacchante did not blink,

"That's war, is it not?" Prince Silverlance smirked with rueful acrimony,

"So it is."

The lady set the antiseptic aside and threaded the needle she would use to stitch his shoulder,

"Is there anything I could get you for the pain?" Bacchante inquired, thinking of the task that lay ahead. The Ancient Prince uttered a low, caustic laugh in response, and the lady did not ask again.

Bacchante finished in silence. She placed the last stitch, and after she did, she let her hands rest on his flesh perhaps and instant longer than necessary – absently, she brushed her forefinger over one of his scars, and the Ancient Royal felt her shiver.

"Do my scars bother you?" Prince Nuada asked, his silken voice breaking the room's long silence. The lady's heart skipped, and beat harder within her,

"No."

"Don't lie." Startled, Bacchante pulled her fingers from his skin, and rose to her feet. She drew a feeble breath - she couldn't look at him, lying languidly on the chase behind her, speaking words like silver cyanide. It was… sexual, so overtly sexual, and she was... "Do they frighten you?" He spoke to her simply, but behind his easy grace was a flicker of danger…

"The _scars_ don't frighten me." The lady replied with some resolve, though she turned her back to him. She didn't hear the Ancient Prince move from the chase but before she could think she felt him standing behind her.

"Then what is it?" His voice was very soft, and she felt his breath, hot on her neck. Without thinking, she turned to face him and backed away, slowly, for fear she'd lose her balance and fall…

"I don't… know," Bacchante replied weakly; Prince Nuada stepped toward her as she backed away, forcing her further into the room, "I don't-" the lady stopped abruptly as her back hit the wall, cold, hard stone taking her breath away. She closed her eyes at the impact, and when she opened them again he was standing before her, as near as he had been in the hall… He lifted his hand to her black hair and buried his fingers in it, gently entwining them in her raven tresses. The lady's heart fluttered at his touch...

Before she could protest, Prince Nuada kissed her. His lips were barely a whisper against hers, a soft caress, and nothing more. Still, the lady met the Prince's affection with a single tear and cried a silent sob, even as he kissed her. After only a second's pause he pulled away…

"I'm sorry," she hurried as soon as her lips were free of his, "I'm sorry… it isn't that I don't-" The Ancient Prince took her face in his hands; his fierce golden eyes looked into hers and they alone silenced her.

"Don't cry." He spoke firmly, his statement every inch an order. Despite her will to acquiesce, the curséd memories his actions stirred within her forced another tear to stain her porcelain cheek.

"I said, _don't cry_." The Prince brushed the tears from her face – his touch was gentle, in spite of the command that was his consolation. "I am your Prince, you must obey me."

Bacchante held her breath, for she didn't trust herself not to weep; his words frightened her…

Without warning, Commander Adrastos entered the room,

"Your Majesty, the –" he paused noticeably, and not too subtly surveyed the situation he'd walked in on. Bacchante flushed when she saw him and didn't doubt what he must've thought; she wondered if he could tell that she'd cried.

"The… pirates you sent General Areborne after have been captured – alive, as per your request. They're being brought into the city now." Bacchante caught the flash of a vengeful grin cross Prince Nuada's sharp features as the soldier spoke.

"Take them to the dungeons." He turned to her, "Goodbye _my lady_," Prince Silverlance's voice was cordial and calm as he bid her farewell, though Bacchante saw wrath flash in his eyes, "I will have a… _gift _of sorts, for you this evening." With that and an elegant bow, the Ancient Royal left her, picking his shirt from the back of the chair as he followed the Commander from the room.

In his absence, Lady Bacchante exhaled slowly, freeing herself to breathe once more. Overwhelmed with a sudden weakness, the lady's legs gave out and she sank gently to the stone floor in a pool of soft fabric. There, stunned by the Prince's affection, terrified by his demeanour and unsure of exactly what would happen that night, the siren did not cry.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I own nothing

**Chapter 7**

Prince Nuada wasted no time heading for the Palace dungeons – the place where the men who raped the siren were being kept, and incidentally, where they would die.

Ever at the Prince's side as he walked down a dark stairwell, away from the pleasant coolness of the Palace corridors was Adrastos, who spoke only once he was reasonably certain they were alone,

"Are you bedding her?"

"Being a gentleman every now and then wouldn't kill you." Nuada managed to reply with a wry smile – but only just. Adrastos caught the malcontent in his friend's response and did not speak again as they descended deeper into the Palace dungeons. Before long, the air took on a hot, dank quality, like entering a cave filled with bats. A thin layer of moisture clung to the narrow stone corridors like oil or grease, the underground tunnels growing smaller and more labyrinthine as they descended, gradually now, to the very oldest part of Nuada's Palace. Quite suddenly the dark, insipid corridor opened to the chamber of the dungeon proper.

It was a massive hollow. Cells, mostly unoccupied, lined the walls of a great open room cut nine stories deep into the earth. In front of the cells were walkways, corridors by which guards could access the inmates, and which spiralled ever downward to the space below. Looking over the side of the balcony, Prince Silverlance could see his prisoners, the human men at the very base of the prison, shackled together like the animals they were. Bethmora's dungeon was mostly silent, those who dwell there having long abandoned any hope of freedom – but in the moment that followed Nuada's arrival a low, deep moan of inhuman agony resonated through the prison, uttered by some soul whose confinement drove him to madness.

For a moment, standing at the edge of the great pit of unspeakable despair and darkness, the Ancient Prince felt like a Poet – he glanced at Adrastos, who, though sardonic and occasionally crass, was certainly Virgil if he was Dante. And Bacchante… would ever be Beatrice, lady of the light.

"This is about her, isn't it? You're doing this for the siren." Adrastos broke the maddening gloom of the dungeon with a touch of logic. Nuada let his friend's words hang in the air long enough to fade, and then he spoke,

"You needn't be here." The Royal's voice was calm; a request, not an order. The Commander gazed down into the dungeon pit at the mortal captives, his face contorted in pity and bitter resignation,

"I don't want to know what you'll do to them." Adrastos turned back to the Elvish Prince and rested his hand on Nuada's shoulder, looking at him with the same cynicism he'd shown the Prince's prisoners. "Don't let this revenge consume you." With that, Commander Adrastos stepped passed the Prince and through the corridor leading from the dungeon. Nuada walked in the opposite direction, taking the fetid stairway circling every deeper down to the bottom of the black pit.

_At this hour_, the Prince thought in vicious reverie, _lay at my mercy all mine enemies._

* * *

Bacchante left the training hall silently, mindful that her footfalls were no more than whispers against the stone floor. She walked through the Palace halls swiftly, darting back to her room. Somehow, the lady was afraid then, terrified of being seen. She was afraid that the Prince would find her, and catch her alone in the hallway…

When the lady reached her small, quiet room, she closed the door behind her as quickly as possible and instinctively felt along the doorframe for a deadbolt lock, anxious when she saw there wasn't one. Bacchante noticed there _was_ a keyhole – she knew she'd seen the key before, she had it. The lady stepped over to her vanity and began opening its drawers and rummaging through their meagre contents furiously; she opened her final drawer, a small compartment to the side of the vanity's ornate mirror, and stopped. Lying there was the small envelope of fine paper the Prince had given her, and on top of it was the silver key.

Bacchante sighed softly, lifting the letter from its drawer. It was soft in her fingertips and covered on one side by a thin layer of dust – had it really been so long since Prince Nuada had given it to her, tucked in the cover of a textbook? She didn't remove the note inside the envelope – she remembered what it said, and the kindness behind the writing of it. For a moment, Bacchante held the small bit of paper in her hands, and gazed up at her reflection in the gilded mirror with minor contempt. _How dare she feel the need to lock her door to him_, she thought – he'd never hurt her or been cruel to her; rather much the opposite. Her fear was irrational and unfounded, and as she held the token of his kindness in her hand, she felt embarrassed for wanting to shut herself away from him like a timid chambermaid.

With a flickering smile Bacchante returned the envelope to its drawer, covering the silver key with it. If there was something the Prince wanted her for that night, the lady thought, she would oblige him. Absently, Bacchante stepped into her lavish washroom and ran a hot bath, debating what she should wear. Perhaps the Prince wanted her for dinner, and nothing more… Despite the steam rising in the room, the lady shivered deeply. Surely he would never _try_ anything. _No_, she thought with a small smile, he was arrogant, perhaps, but every ounce a gentleman. _Tonight_, she thought as she let her dress fall to the floor in a pool of fabric around her ankles, _she would be safe with him._

* * *

Prince Nuada descended to the floor of the dungeon, a snide grin of vengeance twisting his features. He didn't frequent Bethmora's prison often, and as a younger man he'd avoided it altogether – it was a fearful place.

The dungeon floor had the feel of a great black pit, surrounded on all sides by cells that towered upward to a lost ceiling, invisible in the darkness. The ground was the same grey stone as the rest of the palace, but in the dungeons it was covered with a thin black film, like grease or tar. From out the floor of the prison rose iron stakes, of the sort that women were burned at when their kin accused them of witchcraft. At the top and base of each were shackles, to hold in place the victim.

In the very centre of the dungeon floor, at the eye of the Prince's prison was a single cross amid a forest of iron staves. It was made from wood – the only object within the reaches of the dungeon that had ever once been alive. It was a massive, ancient thing, stained black with blood, wood ravaged where iron nails had been driven through the wrists and feet of those who'd died upon it.

After only a moment's pause, Prince Nuada stepped over to the Dungeon Master – the creature to whom the prisoners had been charged. Bethmora's Dungeon Master was a beast of cruelty – he stood easily ten feet tall and only vaguely resembled either the Elf Prince he served, or the humans he butchered. He had no eyes in his head, but three in his chest – his nose and mouth were those of a dog. The Dungeon Master's name was Mr. Mortar, and he was the only brother of the unfortunate Mr. Wink.

"How are you, my friend?" Nuada asked him. Mr. Mortar did not speak, but lowered his head to the Prince. Despite the beast's frightful appearance, he held himself with an odd, graceful repose – a quiet dignity. To the left of the beast stood his captives, the men who'd taken the siren and raped her. Nuada remembered each of them vividly, burned from Bacchante's memory forever to his own. Now they were at his feet, huddled together on the squalid floor as far from the Dungeon Master as their chains would allow – _like dogs_, Nuada thought with revulsion.

Amid the traffickers, the Ancient Prince found their captain, and for an instant met his eyes. He was the man who had been the first to rape Bacchante – he had stolen her innocence. Even now, he bore a look of defiance, of arrogance and pride, and for this, the Ancient Prince looked upon him with abhorrence.

"Mr. Mortar, bind them to the stakes." Wordlessly, the Dungeon Master moved to free the prisoners one from another, dragging them individually to the iron staves that dotted the dungeon floor. As Mr. Mortar reached for their chains, he revealed that in the palm of each of his hands was a mouth – a small, vicious maw with dozens of small, very white teeth. Prince Nuada stood back and waited for the first prisoner to struggle – he did, and then let out a sharp scream as the Dungeon Master's hands bit into his flesh, stripping skin from the muscle that lay beneath. The mortals, Nuada thought, would learn quickly not to fight.

As soon as the men were shacked face-first to the iron stakes, Nuada looked to Mr. Mortar,

"Flog them." At the Prince's order, the Dungeon Master retreated to the wall of the prison, and removed from it a corded leather whip. At the end of the lash was a three-pronged metal barb like a large fish hook, which clattered on the stone floor as the whip was unfurled. "These men are worse than vermin;" the Prince spoke as his Dungeon Master neared the first prisoner, "show them no mercy. Do not stop until you've skinned their backs."

The stroke fell and was met with the first of many cries of anguish that would shatter the grim stillness of the dungeon. Prince Nuada watched, inscrutable, his back against the stone wall of the dungeon pit, arms folded across his chest. As the punishment of the first trafficker continued to completion and the mortal's cries of agony subsided to grim resignation, the Ancient Prince watched the light in the eyes of his comrades flicker and fade. None of the prisoners dared to speak.

It took four hours for the Dungeon Master to scourge Nuada's prisoners; the Prince stopped him before he broke the whip across the captain's back,

"I will tend to him myself." With a small nod of understanding, Bethmora's Dungeon Master handed him the whip.

"Who are you?" The captain's question broke the dungeon's silence.

"My name is Prince Nuada. Everything you see before you belongs to me. I am the one responsible for the destruction of your world, and before the sun rises, you will join your slaughtered kin."

"You're _sick._" the captain snarled, flicking his eyes to his men, their flesh ravaged and bodies broken.

"I would hardly think a man who takes a woman by force is in any position to pass moral judgement," the Prince began, his voice laced with bitterness and rage, "Or have you forgotten her already? She's beautiful – surely you remember _that._ You took three sirens from the North Sea – she was the only one who survived you." The mortal almost uttered a bitter, maniacal laugh, glancing over his shoulder as he spoke,

"Is she your woman?"

"_She belongs to no one._ If you'd remembered that, you'd have suffered a kinder fate." And with that Prince Nuada brought the whip down over the man's back, the metal hook at its tip slashing a strip of flesh clean from the man's body, as meat would fall from a butchered swine.

The Ancient Royal tore through the mortal's back without mercy until all that remained where there had once been skin was a mass of mutilated flesh. Despite the torture, the mortal captain did not cry out as his men had – _too proud to admit pain or fear, even now._ _But that would change._

"Mr. Mortar, take the captain to the cross." Cruelly, the Dungeon Master unchained the mortal and dragged him to the eye of the dungeon, the tops of his feet scraping across the fetid stone.

"_Why_?" The captain asked the Ancient Prince, his question harbouring only a hint of desperation as he was dragged before the crossed staves. "Am I some example for–" The Prince did not let him finish,

"No. You will suffer because you stole the innocence of the woman you _ravished_." Reminded of Bacchante's memory and the horrible shame she'd felt renewed the Prince's wrath. "You loved her only with your _eyes_," Nuada growled at the mortal, his voice dripping with malice, "_No more." _The Ancient Prince tore the eyes from the captain's skull, forcing from his prisoner the first scream he'd uttered all night.

With the pull of a lever the Dungeon Master released the cross so that it lay flat, and the man could be nailed to it. The captain, blinded, writhed in the Dungeon Master's gnawing grasp, shrieking like a madman as Prince Nuada drove iron nails through his wrists and feet, pinning flesh to wood. Slowly, with the cold churning of gears, the cross was righted, the blinded rapist splayed like a martyr before the men he once commanded.

"Douse them with kerosene," Nuada ordered, his voice hoarse with rage, "but nothing more. It's only fitting that Lady Bacchante be here to watch them burn."

* * *

Author's Note: Eek!! Sorry It's been so long since I've updated… I don't think that will happen again.

As a side-note, the religious imagery in this chapter has nothing to do with the crucifixion of Christ – it certainly wouldn't have that meaning to Prince Nuada. A lot of the imagery in this chapter is a homage to a poem I read a few years ago called "The Hollow Men."


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

**Chapter 8**

Prince Nuada left his dungeon is a fury of ire and wicked anticipation, walking quickly through the halls of Bethmora Palace until he arrived at Bacchante's door. She opened it, standing coquettishly in an elaborate navy blue dress, decorated with fulsome ruffles and rhinestones – she'd curled her hair, and it cascaded down her shoulders in rich ebony tresses. The lady smiled at the sight of Prince Silverlance, but her lips flickered when she noticed that his hair was stained with flecks of the familiar black shine she'd come to recognize as blood. Somehow, she suspected that this time it really wasn't his.

"You look beautiful," the Prince's comment, sudden and disjoined, broke her dark reverie.

"Thank you," she answered slowly, and was about to ask about the blood in his hair when he offered her his hand. She let her fingers hover over his for an instant before she took it, and the Ancient Royal guided her through his Palace's ivy-covered halls.

Bacchante's heart skipped as the Prince led her through the entrance to a dark stairwell, and down into the maze of corridors that tunnelled into the dungeon below.

"Don't let that dress touch the walls," Prince Nuada admonished gently, before the siren had the chance to speak. She'd already noticed the layer of black grease that coated the stone passageway, and with her free hand she lifted the mass of her skirt in front of her to protect the fabric from the filth.

"What is this place?" She dared herself to ask after a spell of silence, her voice fragile with a hint of fear.

"A Prison." The Prince paused a moment after he spoke, looking back at Bacchante in the dismal tunnel, "Don't be frightened; no harm will come to you." Bacchante wondered briefly how he sensed her trepidation, and then the lady remembered that so long as he held her hand is his, he could know her every thought.

After following the long, intricate network of dungeon tunnels for what felt like hours, Bacchante and Prince Nuada at last met the low moans of men in agony. The sound, hollow and inhuman, resonated through the noxious tunnels like an echo, or the whisper of a ghost – and before she could protest, Prince Nuada pulled Bacchante into the dungeon chamber.

She let him lead her to the stone balustrade, and she followed his gaze down into the black pit below. At first, the lady said nothing. The figures, the prisoners shackled to the stakes beneath them looked small and distant to her, as she was standing perhaps two storeys above them. Her eyes passed uneasily over their wounds, their backs mutilated through the torture that had been their punishment. _Surely_, she thought, _they must be dead_... They lady's musings broke when she saw movement from the corner of her eye – one of the prisoners, shifting uneasily in his chains.

Horror, a sort of adrenaline washed over Bacchante like a wave. She wondered with dread why the Prince brought her here, why he, who'd shown her the dawn underground and the beautiful solarium, star-ceilinged with the luciferin light-vials, would too show her this...

"Do you recognize them?" The Prince's voice cut through the thick, vile air. It wasn't until he spoke that Bacchante realized he was standing behind her, and feeling him there made her heart flutter and race.

Head spinning from the stench and moans of pain that filled the dungeon, the siren looked closer despite her terror, and saw thick, vaguely yellow grease covering the men, slick over their flayed flesh. Before she could wonder what it was, the Dungeon Master stepped from the shadows with a torch, walking slowly among the condemned. Seeing now that they would be burned alive, _burned alive before her eyes_, Bacchante turned away in horror, her stomach contorting with panic.

Still, she heeded what her Prince had said – that she should know these men, that she would recognize them. Sick with consternation, she turned to study the faces of the prisoners she could see; it was at the exact moment that she recognized one of them as her former captor, as one of the pirates who'd kidnapped her, who'd killed her sister and niece, who'd kept her in cages like an animal and ravished her like a whore, that the Dungeon Master touched his torch to the man's flesh, setting him in flames.

What followed was a scream of violent anguish the siren had not heard the likes of before. The mortal, moments from his death, uttered a cry of such pain and shame and terror and regret that it stilled the lady's blood and made bile rise in her throat. Bacchante held her breath as each man was lit aflame, writhing in screaming, brutal agony. It was only moments after the first had been torched that the putrid stench of burning flesh rose from the pit to the galleries above.

"They can't see you," Prince Nuada whispered to her, much closer now, his chest gently pressing against her back and his lips brushing her ear, "Not anymore." Heart racing, whether from the horror-show in the back pit or from the Prince whispering in her ear like a lover, Bacchante turned her eyes to the man at the center of the pit pinned upon the cross like a butterfly on an Entomologist's corkboard. Through the flames, Bacchante looked at the prisoner, and as if feeling her gaze, he turned his head toward her.

The skin on his face was already blistering and peeling in the fire, but she could still see that he was the man that stole her innocence in a metal cage. Her eyes would have met his, but the lady realized then that he had no eyes – that her rapist looked up at her, silently burning among his screaming comrades with sightless hollow sockets.

Bacchante screamed.

Shaking with fear that made her want to cry or run or fight, the siren tore herself away from the Ancient Royal and ran toward the black corridor that led back to the familiar Palace halls. As if anticipating her flight the Prince let her go, but before she reached the tunnel leading from the dungeon he reached out for her arm and wrapped his fingers around her wrist. His touch was light, hardly a whisper of his skin against hers, but the sensation stopped her dead.

"Before you run, tell me – do you know your way back?" His question was asked so calmly, his tone so completely unaffected by the men burning alive below that it, like a scream, made Bacchante's blood run cold. "The corridors leading from this place are_ labyrinthine_; some go for miles. If you get lost, it's likely you wouldn't be found until morning." The Prince spoke this threat with the metallic coldness of malice, and a hint of caustic pain.

The lady's heart pounded with fear. She'd seen his wrath, his hate – the consequences of it had turned to world to ash and now did the same to the mortal men who'd wronged her; but she'd never felt that derision directed at her. Did he truly think her fear, both of what he'd done and what she'd seen just now was some kind of betrayal? Still, Bacchante feared his abhorrence more than watching her rapists burn alive – more even than spending the night alone in the pitch-black tunnels, covered with ink-like oil and stinking of seared flesh.

The siren let her body relax slightly, and with grim resignation she stepped back to the balcony, turning her eyes to flames and burning bodies. Vaguely, the lady felt Prince Nuada's hands on her arms, his golden fingers only just touching her skin. She shivered deeply at the attention he was playing her, so utterly out of place in the dark prison.

"I want my innocence back." Bacchante whispered absently, only half-referring to what her captors had taken from her.

"Will you settle for revenge?" The lady turned her head to his voice, eyes closed. She did not answer, but she felt that some lingering part of her purity, whatever was left after the pirates had taken her, died along with her rapists and was burned away in the fire.

"One of my men will escort you back to the Palace."

* * *

The guard that showed Bacchante from the prison offered to walk her to her chambers, but the lady refused and instead found a familiar spot on the elaborate stone balcony overlooking the city. Bethmora was silent, deserted and dark, the glow of the luciferin vials made dim in order to replicate the night. As she looked back toward the steep stairway from which she'd climbed, the siren saw tendrils of smoke rising from the dungeon, as if from some infernal fire. The noxious ash rose up into the cathedral-ceiling of the city and lingered there like candle smoke would linger in a church. She, too, remained, all sense of time lost in her reflection, until Prince Silverlance emerged from the dungeon passageway.

"It's past midnight; you should go to bed," the Ancient Prince commented softly, stepping alongside the siren.

"I don't think I could sleep if I tried."

"Did what you see disturb you?" Prince Nuada's eyes flashed, almost wickedly. Bacchante did not look at them, for when he spoke to her like this his questions had the power to peel away her defences; the Prince of Bethmora could undress her at will with words alone.

"Like nothing I've ever seen."

"For that, I apologize." The lady scoffed, half-smiling and silence followed.

"You fear me." Prince Silverlance spoke finally, sombre in the stillness.

"I fear what you've done tonight, your rage, this... vengeance..."

"You've no reason to; I promised you once that no harm would come to you."

Bacchante looked up at him, "You promised me that I wouldn't suffer."

At her words, Prince Nuada stepped before the siren, pinning her between himself and the stone railing, his golden eyes blazing,"_Are you suffering?_"

Before she could answer, the Ancient Prince lifted his hand to the back of her neck and pulled her into a deep kiss. This was nothing like the one he'd given her in his training room – this time, the Elvish Prince didn't hesitate to claim the siren's mouth with his. Still, Prince Nuada was forceful without being violent, and Bacchante bent easily to his will.

When the Ancient Royal pulled away, he left the lady trembling, faint, heart fluttering like a mad butterfly in her ribcage. For a moment he stood before her, and to keep her hands from shaking Bacchante dared to rest them on his chest. A part of her was still terrified to touch him, intimidated by the absolute authority he commanded and the power he exacted over her, so effortlessly...

"I meant it when I said that I would never hurt you," Prince Nuada cooed silkily, snaking his arms around her waist and pulling her closer to him. He kissed her neck, earning a soft, breathless moan from the siren, who clutched the fabric of his shirt tightly in her fingers. Without warning, the Elvish Prince stepped back and wrapped his hand around Bacchante's throat, as if to choke her, but he didn't tighten his grasp. Instead, he spun her around fiercely and pushed her up against the hallway's opposite wall, her back hitting the stone hard enough to wind her. His mouth covering hers in a ferocious kiss, the Prince turned the handle to a nearby door, opened it, and pushed her inside.

The chamber was a guestroom not unlike the one Bacchante had been given. Before the lady could discern any more than this, Prince Nuada shut the door behind them and trapped her against it, his fingers still on her neck.

"My Prince," Bacchante whispered darkly as Nuada's hands moved to her back and unlaced her navy blue dress, letting it fall to her feet. Prince Silverlance ran his teeth over the soft skin on her neck, turning his attention to removing her corset, unlacing its myriad of strings with practiced ease. He pulled the garment away from her and cast it aside, uttering something between a growl and a low moan at the sight of her standing before him. Wordlessly, he clutched her bare shoulders in his hands and pushed her, somewhat more softly, onto the bed.

Prince Nuada was over her in an instant, trailing his hand down her chest and kissing her deeply. In a momentary pause, the siren lifted her hands to his shirt and tore it from him, letting the black article fall from her hand to the floor beside the bed. For an instant, the lady's eyes fell upon the wound that she had stitched for him, the thread still holding his skin together. Softly, Bacchante lifted her fingertips to the healed scars on his chest, running her hands over what were now almost familiar imperfections. On a whim, the lady lifted herself slightly from the bed and pressed her lips against one of the scars, nearest his shoulder. Her action induced a soft growl from her lover, but for a moment he let her continue worshipping his marred flesh with kisses.

Gently, Prince Nuada pressed his hand against Bacchante's chest and forced her back down to the bed; before she could protest, he pushed himself inside her. His action earned a sharp gasp of surprise from the siren – a breath that quickly turned to moans of rapture. Dizzy with pleasure, the lady raked her fingernails over his back, never hard enough to break the skin. The moment he climaxed, the Prince sank his teeth into her neck hard, leaving small drops of her blood smeared on his lips, and staining her porcelain flesh.

She sighed deeply as he pulled out of her and sank down to the bed beside her in satisfied repose. With a breathless moan, she curled her body up against his and rested her head on his chest, her hand over his breastbone. Beneath her fingertips, she felt the slow, steady pulse of his heart, nothing at all like the frantic cadence he so often affected in hers; it was to this that Bacchante fell asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I own nothing

Author's Note: THIS IS RATHER IMPORTANT. This chapter will probably make significantly more sense if you recall the fate of dear Princess Nuala. Re-reading the paragraph that discusses where she is now and why she was put there _before you read this chapter_ is advisable – it's the 6th "paragraph" in chapter two.

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Bacchante awoke the next morning from a pleasant, dreamless sleep. She opened her eyes slowly to the unfamiliar room, and paused a moment to remember the events of the previous evening – the horror in the dungeon pit and... all else the Prince had done. Wordlessly, the siren motioned to climb out of bed, but withdrew her hand abruptly as it landed on something sharp. Glancing over to the pillow beside hers, Bacchante found a single burgundy rose lying in place of her Prince. _Of course he was gone_, she chided herself as she took the flower's long stem in her hands. As the siren admired the fulsome, decadent bloom, she hardly noticed the tiny droplets of blood that stained her fingers where the thorns hat cut them.

Quickly, Bacchante dressed and, with her rose in hand, stepped into the hall. Though her gown was hardly appropriate for mid morning and she was certain her hair was dishevelled and unkempt, Bacchante didn't feel at all like returning to her rooms to make herself presentable. As the lady often did when she was alone and wanted to remain so, she found her way to the Solarium.

When she reached to stone archway that opened to the garden, the siren noticed for the first time that the entrance had a door. It was a heavy, wooden thing that lay open, almost unnoticeable against the hallway wall. The door must have remained unused for years, as the vines that covered the halls now wound around the door as well, holding it open. On a whim, Bacchante pried it from the grasp of the ivy, entered the Solarium and closed the massive door behind her, wood grinding fiercely against the floor and slamming shut with a heavy bang.

The tranquility of the chamber made the lady sigh. Lightly, Bacchante stepped over to the grand, tiered fountain in the center of the tropical garden, breathing in the sweet scent of running water on moss and stone. Absently, the lady twisted the deep burgundy rose in her fingers, twirling it by its stem. The siren, in the seclusion of Prince Nuada's Solarium, dared to sing. She doubted anyone would hear her there – still, her voice wasn't something she could use lightly, and in consequence she sang so softly she could hardly hear herself,

"_Rose, rose, rose red, will I ever see thee wed? I will marry at thy will sire, at thy will..."_

Bacchante stopped and laughed bitterly, letting the flower in her hand fall into the fountain. _Ridiculous_, she chided herself, sighing at her own odd loneliness. For over a thousand years she'd lived almost alone, singing men to their deaths  but it was now, when she was living in one of the last great Netherworld cities with its Prince for a lover that she felt...

Gazing into the water, following the burgundy flower with her eyes, Bacchante noticed something that gave her pause. The last time she was in the Solarium, she'd seen the symbols etched in the fountain's stone facade, but she hadn't time to realize what they were. Now, peering through the ripples at the base of the water-feature the siren could see very clearly that the symbols cut into it were not random at all. The etchings were alchemy sigils, symbols used for the practice of arcane chemistry, and for writing. The language, the version of script that they were written in hadn't been used for centuries – funny, the siren thought, as these sigils couldn't possibly be more than ten years old, or the water would've worn them away...

Reading the message under the water, it didn't take Bacchante long to realize that the symbols were written together in riddles. Following the sigils' direction, the siren dipped her hand into the fountain's second tier and felt along the base for a small notch, an imperfection she read would be there in the stone. Without thinking she pulled back on it and heard a click, like flipping a switch that turned a gear. Her action caused something under the fountain to move, and like a massive mechanized clock one small gear turned a larger one and with the laboured sound of stone grinding against stone, the fountain split apart. Dividing itself into quarters, the fountain opened cracks wide enough for the water in it to rush through, draining into some unseen channel below.

For a brief moment, the grinding stopped, and without the rushing water Bacchante became aware of how deathly silent the Solarium was besides. The siren's rose, once floating in the water now lay in the fountain's empty basin, its scent gone and lavish bloom tousled and waterlogged– Without warning one of the fountain's separated quarters sank into the floor, disappearing to reveal in its place a chasm wide enough to climb down.

Bacchante almost laughed. Though a part of her wondered what lay under the Solarium floor, her rational side balked at the notion of slipping through the hole. Clearly, someone had gone to great lengths to make certain no one found what she had; although unlocking the alchemist's fountain was simple, someone younger than she and less versed in alchemy wouldn't have recognized the sigils as words, much less been able to understand them.

In a moment of rare boldness, Bacchante lowered her legs into the hole, braced her hands on its edges, and dropped down to the space beneath the fountain at the very heart of the Palace of Bethmora.

The drop from the Solarium floor to the bottom of the hidden room under it was short, and the antechamber Bacchante found herself in was very, very dark. The only light in the secret chamber came from the hole through which the siren had entered, streaming down to illuminate a small patch of floor below.

Once her eyes adjusted to the dim light, the siren saw that she had entered a barren space – completely without furnishings and, because the chamber had been pitch black before, no vegetation adorned the granite walls. In the center of the room, raise upon a stone pedestal was a coffin, and Bacchante thought then that she had entered a tomb.

Slowly, the lady stepped over to the catafalque – upon it was a sarcophagus cut into the shape of a woman sleeping. From what Bacchante could see, the coffin belonged to an Elf, young by the standards of her race. In the figure's stone hands were carved a bouquet of forget-me-nots, and adorning her head was a delicate, fragile crown. _So she was royalty_, Bacchante thought, resting her hands gently on the casket._ Of course she would have been, to have a sepulchre in the Palace..._ Absently, the siren ran her hand over the stone of the coffin, pausing quickly when she realized that under her fingertips were the same sigils that had been cut into the fountain above. The lady wondered then if the coffin was locked just as the tomb itself had been – but who would lock a coffin? Bacchante gazed at the sarcophagus' stone face thoughtfully. The tomb wasn't old – it couldn't be, for the fountain that locked it was new, and the woman buried there was surely far too young to have been Queen. _But if she was royalty, she would have to be Nuada's sister._ Bacchante read once, when she lived in the North Sea, that the Elf King had win heirs, a boy and a girl. But surely the woman lying on the catafalque before the siren couldn't be Nuada's twin; the bond between Elvish twins was well known, and if she were dead, he would be too.

Unless...

"Who would lock a coffin, unless this isn't a coffin at all..." With the fear that she was perhaps desecrating Nuada's sister's grave, Bacchante read the sigils on the sarcophagus, and following their direction, opened it as easily as she had unlocked the alchemist's fountain.

Like the fountain, the covering on the casket separated and pulled away in sections, revealing the woman whose stone effigy it bore. She lay as if dead, but Elves turn to clay when they die... with a start, Bacchante saw the woman's chest rise and fall. As the siren looked more closely to be certain she hadn't imagined it, she noticed a long cut breaking the woman's skin above the line of her dress, from her shoulder to her breastbone. The wound looked fresh and familiar...

Suddenly, the woman's eyes flicked open. Bacchante gasped in surprise, staggering back from the catafalque. Weakly, the Elf in the coffin lifted her arms to the edges of the casket and tried to pull herself out, uttering a sad, exasperated sigh when her muscles wouldn't cooperate. Instantly, Bacchante stepped over to the lady and wrapped an arm around her back; the Elf was frail and fragile, made weak through her imprisonment.

"Who are you?"

"Princess Nuala," the Elf breathed, her voice a cracked and broken whisper from years of disuse.

"So you _are_ Prince Nuada's sister," Bacchante whispered, more to herself than to the Princess.

"We're twins." The lady said this lightly, gazing at the siren as if looking through her. Bacchante tried to meet Nuala's eyes, but they seemed hollow and empty somehow, missing the same light that flickered so fiercely in her brother's.

"Why were you locked away here?"

Nuala tilted her golden head; her eyes open wide like a child's, "We are twins." The Princess said this simply and deliberately, as though three words were explanation enough. Nuala blinked and looked down at the gash cutting across her chest; seeing it, she uttered a soft sob, a sound that reminded Bacchante of the dungeon, "Oh, my brother hurt us again–" the Elf looked to the siren, "When he's hurt, I am the like because we are–"

"Twins." Bacchante finished for her. Nuala turned her eyes from the siren and gazed off at nothing.

"Twins. Yes. I have one, you know. His name is Prince Nuada." Bacchante's stomach sank with the suspicion that there was something very, very wrong with the Princess... Nuala looked back at the siren, giggling like a schoolgirl, "you should be mindful of him. _Young men will do it if they come to it; by Cock they are to blame_." As suddenly as the Elf was consumed in a fit of laughter she stopped, and very seriously said, "You are wearing my dress."

The siren drew a deep breath, "_You're stark raving mad..."_ Nuala shook her head and replied decisively,

"No, no, that _is_ my dress. But never mind, it looks beautiful." The Princess lifted the flowers that had been placed in her hands, regarding them curiously. They were black, shrivelled and dead, and had once been the inspiration for the forget-me-nots carved onto the cover of her casket. "I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died."

Bacchante picked the dead flowers from Nuala's hands,

"Please, tell me who locked you here – does your brother know?"

"Of course... I wanted to feel the sun again, it had been so long, but there was no sun, not after the war. My beloved brother... He was so angry that day when they found me in the moor, I am glad you did not see it. I couldn't breathe... He had taken so many lives; he'd made the world so dark; he kills everything he tries to protect. I saw him choking, even as he stood away from the water, his life flickering alike with mine... He was so afraid, not of dying, not at all, but that his life should end when I saw fit to end... mine."

"You tried to drown yourself and he _did this_ to you?" Bacchante forced herself to ask, her voice a mirror of the cracked whisper Nuala's was. It was a question that horrified her even as she asked it, for she already knew the answer.

"Will you let me see the sky?"

With a solemn nod, the siren helped the Princess from her coffin. The moment the Elf's feet touched the floor her legs gave out beneath her, and it was only with Bacchante's aid that Nuala was able to escape her tomb.

"Do you remember a way out of the city?" the siren asked once they had reached the Solarium.

"Oh yes," Nuala answered, gazing up in reverie at the glass and wrought-iron dome of the underground garden, "I lived here once."

The pair left the Solarium, but instead of walking back to the Palace proper Nuala led them down another corridor in Bethmora's intricate labyrinth, to a seemingly endless flight of spiral stone steps.

In time, the Princess' strength began to return, and after several minutes she pulled away to walk on her own. She stepped slowly and delicately, bracing her hand against the wall of the stairwell. Nuala placed the first step, but when she shifted her balance to take another she collapsed, falling onto the stairs. When the Royal hit the ground, she cried a soft sob, not of pain but a different anguish. Bacchante turned and saw the Princess looking at her hand, cut in the fall, blood trickling down her forearm.

"I'm sorry," Nuala whispered to the siren, her voice a sigh. Bacchante narrowed her eyes, reached down and took Nuala's bloodstained wrist in her hand, pulled the Princess to her feet and ascended the stairs out of the city.

* * *

Author's Note (that would have been a spoiler if I wrote it at the beginning): Please don't message me about Nuala being out of character... I realize that she would probably never say some of the things she said, or act this way exactly. _She's insane_. This was done deliberately, as a major plot-point.

Some quotes are from Shakespeare's _Hamlet_ (with two slight modifications if you noticed); if you're familiar with it, I based my version of insane Nuala on Ophelia.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 10

In the Bethmora Palace war-room, strategic debate between the Prince and his military advisors raged. A Faerie, a Seelie spy had come to the city on tired wings and with his dying breath warned the army of a human sect, a merchant ship coming to dock in the shattered remains of New York's harbour. It was a dangerous thing, if true; the Palace-City was well-hidden hundreds of feet beneath the streets of New York, but in the war's latter years with humans few and far-between, not so heavily guarded as it once was. If Bethmora should be discovered by those who wish to destroy it, surely the last great Elven Metropolis, along with the rule of its Netherworld Prince, could fall.

"You have not convinced me that this threat is genuine, General," Prince Nuada stated, resting his hands on the edges of the map table in the Palace war-room. The Faerie who died in the city walls was a Seelie – the highest ilk of Faerie; still, he would not have been treated as an equal by the Elves. Fae were spiteful, and not to be trusted. It was no secret that Prince Nuada and generations of Elves before him had bought and sold the Seelie's lower-born kin as common slaves, and it was not unthinkable, then, that a Faerie could mislead the Elves of Bethmora through a fabricated enemy – or even consort with the humans, and lead the Prince into a trap.

"Surely you don't think this creature would speak against us with his dying breath?" the General countered, pensive and unafraid. These were the words of General Rithiel, a warlord in his own right and an older Elf than Nuada; the man had served under King Balor, and as such, his opinion was one Nuada Silverlance would not flagrantly disregard.

"He was Fae," Adrastos countered from across the table, offering his thought without further explanation. A short silence passed in the war-room. "_Prince Nuada,_" the Commander exclaimed suddenly, his features drawn in concern. All eyes fell on the Elvish Royal, and on the trickle of blood that stained the Prince's hand and pooled on the war-room table. Nuada noticed the injury before another could speak and pushed up his sleeve to find the cut. It was a trivial thing – a tiny wound on the palm of his right hand no larger or deeper than a scratch. The Prince scoffed, lifting his eyes from the small injury. He ran his hand over the edge of the map table to find some offending nick or imperfection, but the wood beneath his fingertips was lacquered and flawless. Nuada Silverlance said nothing, and in his pause and uneasy silence settled over the citadel amphitheatre. Without speaking he lifted his golden eyes to those of Commander Adrastos and as quickly as the Commander divined the Prince's intentions, Nuada Silverlance turned on a heel and fled the war-room, his friend and subordinate quick to follow.

The Commander signalled for two of his underlings to escort and, matching Nuada's stride not two paces behind, the three warriors shadowed their Prince through Bethmora's labyrinthine corridors. Adrastos need not ask where the Prince was leading them, and as Nuada neared the narrow hall that led only to the hidden garden, the Commander's underlings too supposed their Prince's fear.

Nuada and his soldiers needn't so much as enter the Solarium to know that something there had gone afoul; the door to the underground garden, long held open with vines of ivy stood half-closed, casting a narrow beam of light from the Solarium into the old hall. Prince Nuada opened the heavy door and saw without surprise that the alchemist's fountain had been opened. Adrastos dashed past the Prince and into the catacombs beneath the garden to see if the Princess' prison-tomb was indeed empty. Nuada did not follow, but rather noticed a single rose lying discarded near the sepulchre's secret door. It was tattered but not wilted – not a blossom knocked from one of the Solarium's rosebushes, as the bloom ended in a long, cut stem. The Prince took it in his hands, a drop of water falling from a dishevelled petal to land on his wrist. He did not need to lift the flower from the fountain's empty basin to know what it was, and by the time Adrastos pulled himself out of Nuala's grave, the Prince's eyes smouldered like fire.

"The Siren freed my sister," Nuada stated simply, his tone as even as he could manage.

"Your Lady Bacchante?" the Commander countered, his voice heavy with a doubt that Nuada's fury erased.

"Send all the men you trust to find my _sister_, and once she is in your keep return her here."

"And what of–" The Prince didn't let him finish, but hissed in answer, saying the name of his beloved as though it were poison,

"I will _deal_ with Bacchante."

* * *

Above the Palace-City of Bethmora, the winter air rang with crystalline chill – silent, glistening, sterile. No birds called through the frosted air and no footfalls marred the virgin snow; void entirely of any imperfections that would indicate life. The forest that stood at the tunnel's end was barren in the late January cold; still, Bacchante needn't be an Elf to see that once the summer came, no leaves would blush the dead wood verdant.

Slowly, Nuala stepped through into a patch of denser forest, resting her hand on the trunk of a lifeless tree. She wandered, childlike, and from the hidden entrance to the old city, the Siren watched. This was her lover's twin – his sister, his kin, a Princess as much as he ruled Prince and yet he had confined her as though she were a common criminal. She was mad as a March hare – whether cause or consequence of her confinement Bacchante did not know, and as she watched the remnants of royalty's grace transmuted to madness the Siren could think only of the Prince's cruelty, his ruthlessness in the dungeon pit, his genocide that turned the world to ash and reasoned that if she had any sanity to speak of, she would not return to him.

The alternative was frightening and impractical, and Siren though she was any flight Bacchante made through that frigid, lifeless forest could only end in her death. No, she thought; she could not run from Bethmora, and Nuada Silverlance knew this – it had been engineered to prevent her escape; beautiful though it was, his Kingdom was her prison, and he her gracious keeper.

Without warning a soft rushing broke the perfect silence of the January morning, the first sound save the footfalls of the Princess, and the Siren's own breath. With a start Bacchante turned to the source of it, seeing nothing in the bleak forest. In her periphery, the lady watched snow fall from the boughs of an evergreen, landing on the earth with a whispered hush and foolishly held that sound responsible for the broken silence. Uneasily, Bacchante scanned the clearing for the Prince's sister, reeling in fear when she saw the lady gone. Frantically the Siren stepped into the forest, combing the snow for Nuala's footprints, but the footfalls of Elves were faint and delicate, and in the glare of the sun on glistering snow the Siren saw none.

"Nuala," Bacchante called into the barren chill, her voice made fragile by the cold. Somewhere behind her a twig snapped. "Nuala!" the lady repeated, stronger now, distress giving way to panic. She ran out into a clearing, wheeling in circles searching for any sign of the Princess, footprints, a glint of sun on moving fabric, and with a whistle of fletching an arrow sliced through the winter air, coming to rest in the supple flesh between the Siren's ribs.

The force of the blow knocked the lady to her knees and the breath from her lungs. With grim insight she saw not the fair Nuala hiding in the forest, but mortal men armed with guns and crossbows, dressed in wool and worn leather. She saw them step into the clearing, her breath growing weak and the glare of the sun on bleach-white snow ever stronger, its light more painful than the arrow piercing her side. Half-dreaming, Bacchante caught in the corner of her eye the flicker of a silver dress, and saw the Princess in-between the evergreens. Their eyes met for half a moment before the Siren's sight waned, bathing her in white more sterile than new-fallen snow, the voices of the human archers fading to a high-pitched ringing like the shattering of fine crystal. This she endured until that divine white faded to purest black, the ringing to utter silence, and Bacchante felt no pain.

* * *

Nuala's sanity flickered. Her eyes met those of the Siren, the Siren wearing her dress stained red with blood who let her see the sun, and in a brief moment of reason, the Princess ran. She bounded quickly back from where she came, away from the humans her brother hated and through the stone archway that opened to stairs spiralling down to the Kingdom-City. Her pace was frantic – she could feel her brother's anger raging somewhere in her mind, the distant, amber glow of a forest fire burning through unseen hectares, and in her insanity this was what she ran to. She felt him still, his presence, searching the halls of his Palace, walking quickly but without direction – a caged animal smelling its prey from behind the bars.

The winding, endless stairwell down to the underground metropolis took its toll on the lady, and even with the strength that so often blessed the mad she paused to rest, pressing her lithe frame against the worn, damp walls of the ancient passageway. Still, she did not stop, and though she knew this flight to her brother was a flight to her captor she could not end it. Her life had been one of sacrifice – as the lives of Royals so often are–as the life of her brother was – and even parted from Nuada through madness and years of sleep she felt something pure behind his rage. Carnal obsession, yes, but perhaps for her brother that passed for love. If anything, if this wounded Siren could soften the heart of the Destroyer of Worlds, the Princess would gladly trade her freedom for it.

Closer now, Nuala ran down once-familiar corridors and found her brother before he felt her. He saw her in only half-surprise, coming toward him on the Palace balcony that overlooked the city. She wore that delicate silver burial gown gossamer as spider-silk, carrying herself with the precarious grace of a fallen Seraph, and speaking with the frailty of a ghost,

"_I could feel you_," Nuala murmured, airy and forgetful as she clutched the fabric of her brother's shirt in her hands, grasping it lightly with muted desperation, "I dreamed of you." Her eyes fell on him, looking over Nuada like shards of broken glass.

"Nuala, _my sister_–" he began, his words harsh and uneven; desperately the Prince searched for the anger that served as his near-constant companion, but somehow she evanished it and like hope in the shadows of Pandora's box, only guilt was left behind.

"Your Siren dies." Whether it was her ethereal, placid whisper or something in her countenance, Bethmora's Prince heard her words without emotion; watching a massacre through panes of glass. "She bleeds in the snow like a fawn slaughtered in spring, frightened and unready to die." She said this as one would say a poem only half-remembered, disjointed and intangible, and held him fast with her eyes – looking through him without fear. In her golden gaze, once so very like his own, the Prince saw only shadows and felt the visceral horror of looking into a mirror and seeing nothing. Timidly, Nuala raised two fingers to her brother's face and held them there, her eyes never leaving his. In reverie, he let the heavy silence pass.

"We have... so many scars," the Princess whispered finally, her words a tired, inconsolable lament, "Is this not enough?" Through her touch, Nuada saw what his sister had: the image of Bacchante, her wounds staining red the virgin snow...

"My lord!" The voice of General Rithiel pulled the Prince from his sick chimera, rending his sister from him with words alone. In a torrent Nuada's sense returned, and he tore himself from the gaze of his twin, realizing only then with horror the implications of her memory.

"Have your men return her to the antechamber," Nuada ordered, his steely command laced with fear his twin alone could see. Pulling himself from her, Bethmora's Prince clutched his sister's wrist, bloodied burgundy from their common wound, and sent her quickly into the General's keep. "Inform Adrastos of this. He will accompany you." Nuada Silverlance did not wait for an answer before he turned for the surface, ascending from his cavern-Kingdom.

In the Prince's absence, the warlord Rithiel offered his arm to his Princess, looking upon her as a parent would see a wayward child. He knew her in her youth, as he had known them both, and mourned her descent; even in her delirium she saw this much, and as he led her to her lonely doom she placed her arm in his and did not fight.

* * *

Above his Palace-City, Nuada met the winter's blinding, spectral white not with awe but savage determination, narrowing his eyes to the sun. With practiced ease he unsheathed his silver spear, the weapon poised in his hand like that of some avenging angel. The Fae had not lied; in his sister's memory he had seen the humans who had slain the Siren, and did not doubt that they would fight him if they could. Truly, it was foolish to leave the city alone – but if he was to save Bacchante, if she lived still, he could not have waited longer. Swiftly and soundlessly he stalked through the forest, following Nuala's memory to the clearing where the Siren lay.

The sharp whistle of an arrow's fletching from behind caught his attention, and with a fell stroke the Ancient Prince knocked aside the shaft with his spear, turning to slaughter the man who'd fired it. Three humans came from out the forest – swiftly Nuada Silverlance ran his blade down the chest of the first, a whisper of a touch that felled the human in a pool of blood. A careful stroke, dodging a switchblade and he slit the throat of the archer; a final thrust of the weapon buried it in the third man's chest. The Prince withdrew the blade and his attacker's corpse collapsed in the snow, the only noise to desecrate the morning's immaculate silence. Nuada stepped over the dead man's body, flicking the blood from the tip of his spear. A cursory glance revealed no further life in the frozen woods and the Prince stepped from where the men had fallen, deeper into the forest.

The Siren Bacchante lay in a clearing surrounded by cedar trees, their branches long dried and dead. The Elf Lord saw her and dropped to one knee by her side, lifting her head from the bloodied snow. Her body was cold and catatonic and her eyes closed, but a touch was all the Ancient creature needed to see that his love was alive, if only just. Carefully Nuada hovered his hand an inch above her body, pausing as he neared the arrow sheathed between her ribs. Assuring himself that she slept and felt no pain, the Prince withdrew his arm from her neck and instead pressed upon the injury, using the other to pull the arrow from her side. It came cleanly, with a rush of blood that stained his gold skin red and her blue dress black. At his action her eyelids flickered, and whether from shock or pain or the warmth of his hand on her flesh, the lady began to wake.

"I know what you've done." Her voice, faint and frail as his sister's, rang out in the winter chill like the cracking of ice in spring. She opened her eyes only enough to see the Prince, his golden gaze as sharp and unrelenting as the sun. "You monster."

An eternity passed between them before the abject silence was broken, not by speech, but by the dreaded, familiar whisper of an arrow's fletching; the weapon struck true, its shaft buried in Nuada's back before he could move. A moment later and three others whistled through the frosted morn, flanking the Prince's spine like wings of bone. He heard motion, human voices speaking in their indelicate tongue, and every instinct within the Ancient Royal screamed for him to rise – fight, but as the seconds passed he laboured for breath, and as his strength waned he fell to the snow by the Siren's side, numb to all but her hatred.

* * *

General Rithiel, Adrastos and four of their common underlings had escorted the Princess half-way through the halls of Bethmora's Palace before she faltered in Rithiel's arm, crumpling to the floor with a cry of unanticipated pain. Blood blossomed from the lady's back, staining her gown in small florets like petals of a crimson rose.

"_The Prince_," a lieutenant exclaimed in horrid revelation, his gaze darting between the General and Commander.

"He has been attacked – gather a battalion and send them to the surface; his Majesty must be saved–"

"No." Adrastos said this softly but with firm resolve, silencing the General with the utter boldness of his contradiction, "Clearly the humans have a greater presence than even the Seelie spy had anticipated; if we send troops, we risk losing them all, and revealing to the mortals the location of Bethmora. Should they find it, we _all_ shall die. We can save Prince Silverlance by saving his sister; so long as she lives, as does our Monarch." Without another thought the Commander caught the Princess by her shoulders, and as the pain of her brother's wounds sapped her strength he lifted her into his arms, "She needs a surgeon, not a grave."

"This is treachery," The General hissed, moving to stand before Adrastos, blocking him from the corridor.

"Though you are a General and I merely a Commander, I remind you, _Rithiel_, that I was the Prince's second-in-command. As such, you will_ not_ question me." Adrastos said this placidly, and after only a moment's pause he left the General's presence, taking Nuala to the royal doctors.

In the newfound quiet of the palace hall the warriors looked one to another and none spoke, even as all thought the Commander's fading footfalls sounded of heresy.

* * *

Author's Note: AHHHHHHHHHH! sorry it took me so long to update... i blame university. I also realize this chapter is a little strange. To all of you who are still reading this, thank you so very much for your support. I'll try not to go so long between updates again, but with my course-load i can't make any promises.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

**Chapter 11**

Bacchante awoke in darkness. As the lady's eyes flickered open, the only light that met them came from the faint, white glow of a fluorescent light, somewhere in her periphery. In a wave her memory returned - finding Nuala, the winter forest, the pain of the arrow and the Prince, falling at her side. Wildly in the blackness she lifted herself from her back, feeling for the familiar pull of restraints or a gag, silencing her – but there were none; only the graze of coarse linen under her fingertips and the velvet scent of saltwater. With agonizing slowness the Siren's eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she made out the shadows of interlaced iron, like the weavings of a trellis, and then the grim realization that she was once again in a prison.

Her cell was not large; on three sides it was bordered by bars of cross-hatched iron, on the fourth, a wall of solid steel. Its only contents were a small desk and chair made from rough-hewn wood and the cot on which she sat. The light, she divined, came from outside the prison, through the crack of an open door beyond the bars.

Bacchante rose to her feet, wincing in pain at the wound in her side – pain enough that she could not stand unaided for long. It was only then, when she tried to stand that she noticed the rocking, the gentle sway of a boat on water. A small porthole was cut above her bed and she managed to get to her knees to see through it. She was on a ship, without a doubt – and it was night, for the sea was black as pitch, save for the shimmer of stars on the crests of the incoming tide.

"So you're alive." A man's voice pierced the stillness of the brig – too coarse to be Nuada's. With a start Bacchante turned from the window to the source of it – silhouetted in a corridor, a man passed through a lamp-lit doorway and stepped toward her cell. "I didn't think you'd make it." He was human. Shadowed by the light from the hall, Bacchante saw the man had a face lined with deep scars and a week's worth of stubble. He could be as old as 50, she thought, or as young as 30 if he'd seen combat.

"Where am I?" Bacchante uttered this in a harsh whisper, eyeing him warily from her cell.

"The _F/V Dodson-May_." The man paused a moment, leaning against the iron bars, "'Used to be a crab boat out on the Bering Sea. After the war started and the fisheries went under, we sailed her out through the Northwest Passage. She's a retrofit merchant ship now." He recounted this story with the saucy guile and solemn regret that so often mingled in the hearts of sailors. He was of an old breed, and Bacchante knew his kind well.

"And what is it you trade?" Whether from the caustic edge or lingering fear that marred the Siren's words, her captor uttered a laugh like gravel on concrete,

"We're not slave traders if that's what you think. 'Weapons mostly, ammunition if we can find it." Bacchante uttered a sharp laugh – a scoff to hide her panic and fear. She wanted to believe him, truly, but she doubted now that she could ever trust the promises or intentions of his race. He was a seaman - that much was obvious; his kind were ruthless from the start, but with that hardness came a reverence for the wild, and even a sense of boyish adventure. Doubtless, he had seen horrors – and now the Siren wondered if he had kept his soul. She waited a moment, looking into the fisherman all she could before she pressed further – as if this careful perusal could uncover the nature of his spirit,

"There was another, a man, an Elven warrior-" The sailor silenced her with a gesture,

"To your right."

In the dim light the Siren hadn't thought to look to the cells neighbouring hers, but even in the darkness she could see a silhouette lying on the prison's bed, arrows sticking from its back like spines.

"The pointy-eared bastard gave us quite a fight. We hire out mercenaries for when we come to port, see? 'Guess he killed three of 'em. The rest got him though."

Bacchante was hardly listening. The sight wrenched her gut, catching her breath in her throat like a sob, but on the heels of love's pity was morality's prudence. All he had done, this Prince of the Netherworld – and all he would do, if he ever returned to his Kingdom beneath the earth…

There would be no peace so long as Nuada Silverlance lived. The gravity and weight of the revelation stung her, as did all that it implied; would she truly let him die, to save what was left of the earth he'd tried to protect? She loved him, but what did the love of one person matter – who was she to choose herself over all creatures? And if he died, so would his sister – but perhaps this was a kinder fate than life as her brother's captive. Yet, who was she? Who, then, was she to choose if he lived or died, to weigh his heart against a feather?

"Please," the word escaped her lips in a half-whisper, "Let me treat his wounds. He'll die if I don't." She couldn't see the old sailor well in the darkness, but she felt him shift his weight uneasily upon her request. "You… you've no reason to trust me, but as you can see I could not fight you and win. _Please…"_ Bacchante's plea was first met with silence, then the metallic jangle of rusted keys followed by the harsh scraping of the heavy iron door against the ship's hull.

"Make it quick."

With all her strength, Bacchante willed herself to rise – to fight the pain burning in her side and walk – and she did. She stepped to the cell door on uncertain feet, and by the time she reached it the grizzled merchant sailor had unlocked Nuada's prison. Carefully, the Siren braced her hand against the cold metal bars for a moment longer as her captor swung open the heavy gate.

"I'll need surgical thread and antiseptic-" Bacchante's request was cut short by the old sailor's scathing laughter.

"This ain't a hospital, miss. I can find you some fishing line and whiskey-"

"No. No alcohol." Bacchante did not look back at her captor as she answered, but made her way into Nuada's cell, bracing herself on prison bars and old furniture.

"Who is he to you?" The Siren did not answer. Slowly, she made her way to the Prince's bed, falling to her knees at his side. "_Lovers_, aren't you?" At this, the lady turned to face him, her eyes dark with indignation,

"_Please._"

From the corner of her eye she watched the sailor leave, his shadow retreating down the fluorescent-lit corridor.

Safely alone in darkened stillness, Bacchante let her eyes fall on the Prince's wounds. The bleeding had stopped, she thought, but the arrows had struck deep and true - an insight that made the Siren stifle a cry. Gently, she let her hand fall to the Prince's shoulder. His spear was gone, yet still he wore the black and red robes of his Elven kindred; through them, she could feel the warmth of his skin, and the rise and fall of his breath. He would live, she thought, closing her eyes and shutting out the sounding sea, so that all she could see or feel was his pulse, his life beneath her fingertips. He would live, even if his life was spent on destruction, and his legacy writ in blood.

Without warning, Bacchante's melancholy reverie was broken by the harsh click of the prison's deadbolt giving way. Hearing the sound, the Siren turned to it, her eyes flashing fear.

"I won't hurt you, _or him_," the sailor placated, seeing her unhidden fright. Quickly, the seaman placed a spool of thin fishing line and a silver needle on the cell's wooden table and turned to leave, pausing briefly at the brig's barred door. "Listen… you should know the mercenaries are baying for blood." He gestured to the Prince, "They want to kill him. But, it's not their boat, so."

Bacchante turned to her captor, watching as he turned the key to Nuada's cell, locking them inside.

"Why did you let me help him?"

The old sailor laughed softly to himself,

"Kindred spirit, I guess. Truth is your man there put up one _hell_ of a fight. None of the boys we hired could've taken him one for one, see? I respect that. A man like that, he shouldn't die getting shot in the back. I don't care whose side he's on." Bacchante's lips almost curved into a cynical smile. If he knew… if this man, this sailor knew that the wounded Elf who lay before him was the Prince of Bethmora, the dreaded monarch who'd ordered the massacre of the sailor's kin and laid the earth to waste, the lady wondered if she and Nuada Silverlance wouldn't be murdered in a heartbeat. They'd be shot through the prison bars with the cold precision of an execution, and all the fisherman's talk of honour and morals would be nothing more than pretty hypocrisy.

Bacchante tilted her head at his explanation, but did not answer it as her captor's footfalls grew distant, then faded to silence as he stepped away down the fishing vessel's corridor.

As soon as he had gone, the Siren moved to gather the makeshift medical supplies the man had brought. Whether from fatigue or pain or the old, familiar fear the fisherman had re-awoken in her, Bacchante was too weak to stand. On hands and knees the Siren crawled to the wooden table and dragged it across the cell floor, old wood groaning and creaking against the ship's hull.

Weakly, she leaned her side against the Prince's bed, positioning herself to reach both the fishing line she would use as stitching, and the arrows that impaled Nuada's back.

He slept still, or was unconscious, from pain or shock or blood loss she did not know. Still, there was disease in his repose – restlessness – and for a brief moment the Siren forgot all the evil he had done and saw not the murderer-Prince of Bethmora, but merely an Elven warrior, the last of a dying breed.

"_Nuada Silverlance,"_ the Siren whispered, pity and pain weaving together in her heart. Gently, the lady raised her hand to his face and lifted away a stray lock of golden hair. Idly, her fingers brushed the cool skin of his forehead, and at her touch Nuada's eyes flew open.

Bacchante gasped, flinching under his piercing gaze. Before she could move the ancient creature took her wrist in his hand, his golden eyes fixed on hers as he rifled through her memory. He did not stop when he saw what she had seen in the forest with his sister, but pushed through deeper, through the memories of Nuala's stone casket and the Alchemist's fountain, stopping only after he made the Siren relive in visceral detail the memory of the night he took her.

When he released her, Bacchante pulled her hand from him and held it to her body, coiled upon herself like a wounded snake. She did not look him in the eye.

"The mortal men shot you with arrows-"

"_I recall_." His voice was ice.

Bacchante breathed slowly, daring to look up from the floor,

"I have to take them out."

"Then what are you waiting for?" It wasn't a question. Silently, the lady neared the Prince once again, pulling herself up onto the bed. She braced one hand on his back around the base of an arrow, and wrapped the other around its sheath. Without preface or pause, Bacchante drew it from his flesh.

Nuada Silverlance did not cry out, and he did not flinch. Blood flowed from the open wound, and the Siren quickly tore a piece of fabric from the frills of her dress and pressed it against his flesh. Crimson bloomed through the blue satin, staining it black – and eventually stopped. The lady continued her work in silence, laying the bloodied arrows on the table as she drew them from his back. The Prince said nothing as she did this, even as his flesh was ravaged, his ebony shirt wet-black with blood.

"I should stitch the wounds closed," Bacchante murmured after the final arrow had been removed, hesitating a moment before she touched him again. Nuada gave neither consent nor objection, and with trembling hands the Siren pulled the Prince's shirt from his shoulders, revealing the flayed flesh beneath. His wounds were deep, as she had thought, and the blood that flowed from them had streaked his golden skin with burgundy.

The Siren lifted a hand to her mouth, holding back a sob of sorrow, rue and rage. Doubtless, he had endured worse even than this in his long life – his body itself was evidence in the myriad of scars it bore. The arrow wounds would heal and scar, and add to the others that marred his golden skin. Even in this knowledge, Bacchant wished that she could be the wounded one – that his suffering would be her suffering and that his scars would mar her flesh. Solemnly, the lady threaded the sailor's silver needle, and began the work of sealing the Prince's wounds.

In this, Nuada felt the wave of Bacchante's grief wash over him through her touch, and for a moment, the Siren's pity silenced the Prince.

"Thank you," he said calmly, after Bacchante placed the final stitch. The Siren nodded once, but did not look at him. Carefully, she braced one hand on the top of the cell's wooden table and tried to push herself up from the floor – as soon as she tried she cried out in pain, clutching her side. In an instant Prince Nuada rose from the cell bed and lithely stepped down to the floor, kneeling in front of the Siren. He cocked his head, gently resting his fingertips under her chin as he looked over her features, usually soft and serene, now taunt and sharp with lingering pain.

"You've been injured also," he mentioned finally, softer now. His rage at her betrayal had ebbed, overwritten with concern, and familiar pangs of guilt.

"You're wounded far worse than I; you shouldn't–"

"Don't speak."

Silently, the Ancient Royal carefully took Bacchante in his arms and rose to his feet, laying her down on the prison bed. For an instant he met her eyes, darkened with pain, and silently asked permission to continue. Bacchante nodded solemnly; she did not protest as the Elven Prince untied the lacing of her corset, undoing her dress to reveal the wounded flesh beneath. His touch was cool against her ribcage and as his fingers moved deftly against her skin, sealing the arrow wound with practiced ease.

Nuada Silverlance had saved her life, now a second time. He welcomed her into his Kingdom, showed her nothing but kindness and even, perhaps, love – even now, after she ran from him in fear and loathing, after she betrayed all that he had given her. And yet, even as the Prince tended to her wounds, Bacchante could not forget Nuala's fate. Even as the Siren tried to understand what he had done, she wondered selfishly if she, too, would someday meet a similar end. Was anything beyond him? The Siren remembered the ice in the Prince's voice when he first awakened, and the fury that laced his features when he had looked upon her, and she feared him.

"Have I offended you so, Siren?" The Prince asked, reading her thoughts.

"She was your sister." Her voice wavered as she spoke, frail without delicacy. Nuada scoffed, tying off the thread.

"You can forgive the annihilation of a race, but to confine my twin to a life of sleep is beyond redemption? Your sentimentality is foolish."

"_Foolish_?" Bacchante propped herself up on her elbows, turning to the Prince, "I've seen what you're capable of; I bore witness to your genocide, and I accepted the ruthless precision of it, the brutal science of your human massacre. Perhaps the mortal men deserve death, but your sister has done _nothing_ to earn the prison you confined her to. She's your own living _flesh and blood _–"

"Nuala is no more alive than the men you sing to!" Nuada countered, his voice harsh, unyielding, "Do not pretend that before the humans took you from your home you did not sing thousands of innocent men to their deaths. It is your _nature_, all that you are!" Bacchante turned her head from him, but did not protest. "I have looked into my sister's eyes and saw nothing but shadows. She is _gone_; what remains is only a shell, unliving."

"And you are so convinced that your sister is beyond saving that you do not even try?"

"_You know __**not**__ how I have tried!"_ The ancient creature's golden eyes flashed, and smouldered with rage, "I watched her _fade_. I watched as my obsession slowly killed her! It was not my war that drove my sister to madness, but my passion for it. We are of one heart, she and I. Our souls are linked; my lust for vengeance _corrupted_ her. The guilt I feel for that is greater than any for my human genocide. Her madness was _my_ doing – a poison borne of my soul. This thing of darkness, I acknowledge mine."

Bacchante did not speak. A moment of uneasy silence passed in the dark cell, and then without explanation, the Prince rose from the Siren's side, turning his head to the prison's door. His black tunic still lay discarded on the prison cot and Nuada's muscled back was tense and taut, his wounds seemingly forgotten. For an instant Bacchante wanted to inquire, to ask if he had heard or seen something she had not when she, too, heard the jingling of rusted keys that marked the return of her boorish captor.

"_Oh no…"_ she whispered, more to herself than Prince Nuada, but before she could speak again the human entered the steel brig, his heavy footfalls echoing against the floor. The sailor sidled up to the cell's locked door, fumbling with his keys. He didn't look up, and didn't see the Elvish Royal's seething glare from beyond the bars.

"Alright, that's enough missy," he began, voice terse and mocking at once, "You'd best be coming with me-"

In an instant the Elvish Prince was at the cell door. He shot his arm through the bars before his captor could move, clutching the man's throat hard enough to take his breath.

"Try to take her from me and I _will_ kill you," Nuada growled, his teeth inches from the sailor's face.

"_Please-_" Bacchante begged, never rising from the prison's bed, "He has been nothing but kind to me."

"_Kind_, you say?" The Prince scoffed, half-looking over his shoulder at her words, "His race knows not of _kindness_." He paused for a moment, holding fast the fisherman's throat. With a derisive scowl Nuada Silverlance let the sailor go, turning back into the cell. The seaman doubled over, coughing hoarsely with his throat in his hands.

"You fucking albino bastard," He wheezed, glaring at the creature, "I could kill you right now-"

"Then kill me." A pause. "No? Your threats are hollow." Nuada eyed the human with revilement, "Leave us."

For a moment the brig was still as death, like sunlight after a storm. The Prince's voice had commanded such authority, such effortless absolution that the Siren wondered if the human, proud as he was, dare defy him. Finally, the sailor straightened, glowering back at the Elvish Prince. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead the sailor turned, slamming the door to the brig as he left and shrouding the row of iron cells in darkness.

Nuada Silverlance smirked, his golden features gleaming in the pale moonlight. He turned back into the cell and looked at Bacchante, and, to her horror, laughed.

It was not a laugh of merriment or even triumph, but a low laugh of maniacal satisfaction – a mad bark that sent shivers down the lady's spine.

"_Don't tell me you're frightened_," the Prince said, grinning maliciously as he looked at her, and then out the small porthole cut above the bed. "I have been in far worse predicaments than _this_, I assure you. These… _captors_ of ours are cowards, and will be quickly and easily beaten." He turned to her once again, this time with a slightly less menacing smile, "It's only a shame he didn't drop the keys."

Bacchante swallowed hard,

"But you… you couldn't… _possibly_… defeat them _all_? _Unarmed_?" Bacchante glanced back at the brig door. Without the crack of lamplight shining through it, the prison of the _F/V_ _Dodson-May_ seemed colder and more ominous still.

"_Just watch me_."

* * *

Author's Note: OH MY GOD! I'm so, _so_ sorry for not updating this in, oh, gee, more than A YEAR. -_-'

Now that I'm through the toughest classes in Engineering, I should be able to write more. I have a pretty clear idea of where I want this story to go, so the only thing left for me to do is write it. To those people who've stuck with me this long, thank you, so, _so much_. The support of my readers gives me motivation to keep writing, if only so I can let you all know how this story ends.

Also, I really hope someone laughs at the fact that they're stuck on a crab boat. I'll admit it, I'm a _Deadliest Catch_ fan. You've found me.


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